


Memento Vivere

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Victorian, alternative history, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 114,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22068892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: The life stories of Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes and John Watson.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 470
Kudos: 190
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. The Deepest Secret: A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> At last, I am happy to bring you this long-awaited tale. I hope you all will enjoy and think it worth the wait. I have done a lot of research, but it must be confessed only on the small details, so I realise that there are probably mistakes in history/politics etc. Let us call it creative licence. It is an alternative history, of course. My plan is to post a chapter each Wednesday and Sunday. Fingers crossed. As always, this is not a WIP, but a completed story. I would love to know what you think.
> 
> My inspiration: In revisitation and remembrance, we bring back that which is not always fresh in the mind, but always familiar to the heart. -India Hicks

[1925]

here is the deepest secret nobody knows…  
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the  
stars apart  
I carry your heart [I carry it in my heart]

-e.e. cummings

The morning seems full of promise.

Of course, perhaps it is merely the season that is cheering me, as spring does always seem to evoke a sense of new beginnings in all living creatures and I am no exception. The encroaching sun wakes me early, even before Sherlock, who had been tardy coming to bed the night before. He rolled in next to me during the darkest hours after midnight, mumbling something about being caught up in his work. Still mostly asleep, I did not chuckle; in reality, I supposed that he had merely dozed off over the hefty forensics tome he had been reading. He has never become more fond of admitting to ordinary human weaknesses. I have never been able to find the trait anything other than endearing.

As usual, his arm is draped possessively across my torso. It is as if he thinks that, even after all this time, left without restraint, I might simply float away. I plant a kiss into his greying curls, which are [delightfully] most often left to their own nature these days, and slip out of the bed in a well-practised manoeuvre. He sleeps on, with only a mumbled grumbling to show that he is aware I am abandoning him.

Briefly I think of staying, but I am too eager to begin my day.

It takes me little time to wash, shave and dress. We live very informally here in Honeycomb Cottage, so some serviceable tweed trousers and a comfortable, albeit rather threadbare, linen shirt will serve today. We have become quite the countrymen of late.

My first duty of the day is to feed our exceedingly lazy bulldog. After demolishing his meal much too quickly as usual, Gladstone ambles out to have his morning nap in the sun.

The kettle is just boiled and I have applied butter to four thick pieces of toast by the time Sherlock wanders into the kitchen. [It should be noted that my culinary skills are no more than those of any old campaigner who is quite used to making do.] Twice a week, the redoubtable Mrs Jay comes in to prepare several dishes to see us good for our dinners. I manage breakfast and light lunches, save on those few occasions that the great Holmes can be roused to producing toasted cheese or some such thing. Saturday dinner is usually taken in the dining room of a nearby hotel.

My friend apparently intends a day at home as well, dressed as he is in well-worn trousers and a collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. Because, when all is said and done, I am but a man, [and one unafraid to reveal _my_ human weaknesses] I spare a moment to admire those forearms. The smirk that crosses his face shows that Sherlock is, as usual, perfectly aware of the path my thoughts have taken.

He plants a deceptively absent-minded kiss onto the top of my head and takes his seat at the table. Somehow I am still occasionally bemused by the sense of freedom we have here, where we are allowed to kiss and touch one another without listening for the sound of footsteps on the seventeen stairs that lead up to our rooms in Baker Street or checking that the drapery is pulled closed on the windows to the world beyond those walls.

“Have you plans for the day?” I ask him.

His grey-green eyes light up immediately. “I think that spring has finally arrived, so I intend to begin my preparations for the season.”

After several years of living here, I know very well what that means. Nevertheless, I let him tell me, because Sherlock Holmes still likes to proclaim, whether about his newest theory as regards the old Ripper case or on how to tend his precious bees.

Let me confess that I also still enjoy listening to him proclaim. We are perfectly suited in that regard. As well as in all others.

I push the sugar bowl across the table to him; his notorious sweet tooth has lingered into middle age.

Distractedly, he spoons the sugar into his tea. “I shall have to determine how many of the creatures have made it through the winter,” he says. Creatures, he calls them in here. In the apiary, they are most often ‘my lovelies.’ “I must carefully examine the clusters high in the upper deep hive bodies.”

I nod seriously, as if this were the first time I had heard all of this.

“It must be confirmed that each hive has its queen, of course, and that there is still an ample food supply. Perhaps I will start the sugar syrup feed.” His tone is that of a boy on Christmas morning, anticipating a marvellous gift. He pauses to dab away a stray drop of honey which had escaped the toast and landed on his upper lip. “I shall be fully occupied all day,” he warns, as if in pre-emptive apology for the fact that I will be ignored for some hours.

“No matter,” I reply. “As it happens, I shall be engaged today as well.”

He quirks a brow at me, seemingly jealous of my time, even when he has already announced having no need of my company for the day.

“I intend to finally buckle down and begin my magnum opus.”

Having already heard me announce that plan more than once, he manages to only look mildly sceptical; he does love me.

But I give a determined nod. “I am quite decided, Sherlock. Now that I have access to Mycroft’s diaries, there is nothing to hold me back.”

For all their early divisions and later fractiousness, the slight flicker of sadness that crosses Sherlock’s face tells me plainly that he still mourns the unexpected and sudden passing of his older brother three months earlier. Perhaps appropriately, the heart of that British Government stalwart gave out within the familiar surroundings of the Diogenes Club. Apparently, no one noticed for some hours that he had passed away, but such is the odd nature of that club. I reach across the distance between us and give Sherlock’s hand a pat. In return, he offers a small smile.

We finish our breakfast in companionable silence and while I tidy the kitchen, Sherlock takes his beekeeping garments from the wooden wardrobe in the back entryway. I watch him don jacket, gloves and head covering. “I will bring you tea later,” I remark.

“Only if it will not disturb your muse unduly,” he teases me.

Because kissing through the netting has proven unsatisfactory, I merely give him a half-hug and send him on his way. Then I manage to procrastinate a further few minutes by reorganising the cutlery drawer, but finally the idea of facing Sherlock’s mockery later drives me out of the kitchen and into the second bedroom we use as an study.

The large desk had been transported from Baker Street, so I am very familiar with it. Still, I approach it this morning with more than a little trepidation. I take a moment to glare at the contraption sitting squarely in the middle of the desk, issuing a silent challenge to me.

Sherlock had been very pleased with himself at Christmas when, with a grand and flamboyant Holmesian gesture, he presented me with this gift. “The newest thing,” he announced proudly.

So now I am the somewhat sceptical owner of a Bartok Typewriting Machine.

My beloved has always been rather more enamoured by all things modern than have I. But such machines seem to be the way of the future, so I must adapt. Apparently. Stiff upper lip, Watson, I chastise myself, and finally take my seat. Carefully, I remove the cover and, endeavouring to remember the meticulous lessons Sherlock had pressed upon me, I insert a sheet of blank paper.

Although what, I do wonder, is wrong with a good serviceable fountain pen? My faithful old Swan has served me well for a very long time.

Still, Sherlock will be disappointed in me if I do not, at least, make an effort and I never want to disappoint him.

I lift my reluctant fingers and begin.

_A man might play many roles in his lifetime, especially if, like me, he is fortunate enough to enter his sixth decade._

_I have been a soldier. A surgeon. Companion and helpmate to the world’s only consulting detective. Lastly, but by no means least [I flatter myself to think] I have been a storyteller._

_Of course, the great British public knows well the little tales of my many adventures with Sherlock Holmes as related in the pages of the Strand magazine and latterly in book form by George Newnes. Indeed, surprising to me [and more so Holmes] the popularity of these stories has expanded even beyond the shores of this sceptre’d isle to be known in much of the literate world._

_But now that we both have withdrawn to a much quieter existence, there is one more tale to be told._

_I write these words sitting in our cottage in Sussex. Of course, everyone knows that Holmes retired [rather prematurely in many minds] when the charms of crime solving had begun to pall. That was due, he still insists, to a sad lack of creative, intelligent criminals and rather than duel with lesser examples, he was determined to tend bees and perhaps write the definitive study on the science of deduction. [As a side note, I mention that whilst the bees are flourishing, that great volume remains only a vague notion.]_

_What is less well-known, at least to the general public, is that I retired with him and now we share this cottage as once we co-habited the rooms in Baker Street. Just as we have shared everything for so many years._

_Of course, I set these words down onto paper well-knowing that when the tale is finished there will be no publisher prepared to offer it to the public for 5s 6d or whatever the going rate is these days. Instead, these pages will be deposited in a vault at Cox and Co until all those concerned are long dead._

_Please know that I do not produce this work alone. Holmes has shared his memories with me most generously and I also have the invaluable resource of the diaries kept by Mr Mycroft Holmes since his early childhood._

_Together, the three of us will finally set down the true history of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I am determined to be nothing less than completely honest on these pages, with no intention of sparing myself or anyone else. There have been times when I have behaved as less than a gentleman and when Sherlock Holmes has done the same. Everyone’s life is a mix of good and bad and so this narrative will show. But it is my belief, gazing backwards, that the good outweighs the bad and I hope that you, dear reader, will agree. In some halcyon future, I imagine and hope that these words might be seen through a prism of acceptance._

_Holmes, of course, would say that I have too much faith in mankind and perhaps he is correct in that. We two, of course, will never know the truth, which is perhaps for the best._

Some hours have passed by the time I finally sit back from the infernal machine and stretch my cramped muscles, before checking the longcase clock that ticks away in the corner of the room.

Long past tea time.

I feel a certain sense of pride when I look at the small stack of paper that has accumulated next to the typewriting machine, which might, after all, be quite useful. Sherlock will be happy. And smug, of course, but I learned to live with that a long time ago.

And I already know that he will accuse me of over-romanticising the story I will tell. I will quiet him by saying that romance can also be a truth and perhaps the best truth of all. His face will go soft, then, and he will probably plant a kiss or two on my lips

Rather stiffly, I rise and move to stand by the window, from which I can see Sherlock still hard at work. I smile at the sight of both him in his absurd garb and the loyal dog dozing nearby. My life is good,

Then I leave the desk and machine behind and go to the kitchen to put the kettle on the hob.

Tomorrow the real work will begin.

**


	2. The Root of All Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes is a child who grows up quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind reception to chapter one of this story. I hope this second chapter will find favour with you as well. As always, I look forward to hearing from you. Starting now, we are going to learn a lot about the pasts of our characters.
> 
> I am planning to post the next chapter on Wednesday, according to the schedule, but I am having a medical procedure on that day, so things might run a bit late.

He who is overly attached to his family  
members experiences fear and sorrow,  
for the root of all grief is attachment.  
Thus one should discard attachment to  
be happy.

-Chanakya

1

Mycroft Holmes lay prone in the lush foliage and carefully lifted his binoculars to his eyes. Well, he _called_ them his binoculars. In reality, they were just Mummy’s opera glasses. Silver and porcelain and delicately painted with a romantic French garden scene. But Mycroft ignored all of that since Mummy was willing for him to use them, as long as he was careful. Which Mycroft always was. About everything, really. Although he preferred to think that he had a prudent nature; that sounded better than saying he was careful.

Still, he was hoping to receive a pair of real binoculars [solid brass, with a sturdy leather strap, just like he had once seen a military officer carrying] for his approaching tenth birthday. If Father remembered, of course.

It took him a moment to focus the opera glasses, but then his targets came into sharp view. Pleased, he watched the pair of colourful barbets until a sudden cacophony of chatter from a rhesus macaque in a nearby tree chased the birds away in a flurry of wings.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, lowering the glasses irritably.

“Master Mycroft,” Mr Hall said mildly from his position nearby.

“Sorry, sir,” Mycroft replied automatically.

It had been Mr Hall who’d gotten him interested in birdwatching in the first place. The tutor was always looking for ways to keep his charge’s mind engaged, which was no easy task; even Mycroft himself understood that very well. Neither of his first two tutors had lasted long because they lacked the imagination to move beyond the structured curriculum. Sometimes Mycroft felt as if his brain were a runaway horse, careening hither and yon, and it was a constant battle to keep the beast under control. Hopefully, without at the same time breaking it completely.

All of which helped to explain his prudent nature, possibly.

At first, Mycroft had spurned the idea of traipsing around looking for birds just so he could inscribe the sightings in his journal. What was the point?

But soon enough, he felt quite differently.

There was something appealing in just…watching. Of knowing the secrets that nature held. Quickly, he had gone from merely indulging his tutor’s whim to being slightly obsessed with the avian world.

It was certainly the best part of this summer thus far.

Mr Hall slipped a hand into the pocket of his drab waistcoat [the man leant towards drabness, as suited his station] to pull out his pocket-watch. “It is nearly teatime anyway,” he said. “We should return to the house.”

Mycroft gave a heavy sigh and reached for his canvas satchel so that he could stow away the opera glasses and his leather-bound journal with the well-used pencil tucked alongside it. Lastly, he tucked in his copy of _Birds of India as Compiled by An English Lady_. He moved slowly, because there was no real desire to return to the new bungalow that was now going to be the residence of the Holmes family for a good part of each year.

Little England was what they were already calling Simla, now that so much of the government fled the Indian summer in Calcutta, taking refuge in this mountaintop paradise that now served as the summer capital. Father was a very important part of that government, so here they were.

Finally, Mycroft stood, frowning as he noticed a grass stain on his lightweight short trousers. He would have to change before Father noticed. “Ready,” he said, hoisting the satchel onto his narrow shoulder.

Mr Hall tucked his copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets into his pocket and pushed himself to his feet. His tutor was something of a romantic, unfortunately, and spent most of his leisure time penning endless missives to his fiancé in Edinburgh. However, because he was not a complete idiot in most other ways, Mycroft forgave him this unfortunate foible.

They walked in silence along the ridge towards the bright blue cottage that was pretending to be in the Cotswolds. Below them on one side was Simla itself, with its long and winding main road, the Mall, the bazaar. If they looked the other way, the Himalayas rose above them.

As he walked, Mycroft was hoping that Cook had actually mastered the recipe of the ginger biscuits that had been promised several times. Her success with some things was rather mixed, but the plump, smiling woman did try, so he made it a point to always be gracious about her failures. There were few smiles to be found in the household these days and Mycroft was glad to take any that were offered.

Mr Hall left him at the front door, going around to the small but comfortable addition set in the garden where he lodged. No doubt inspired by the sonnets he had been reading, it was probably his intention to pen yet another letter to the absent Miss McKenzie.

Mycroft went to his bedroom and changed from the shorts to a pair of long trousers and, at Nanny’s request also washed his hands and face and combed his near-ginger hair.

Nanny gave his cheek a pat before he left the room. She always did.

The elderly lady was superfluous to need these days, of course, but she had been Mummy’s nanny and then his, so there was no talk of turning her out. Sometimes, when a day had been especially bad, Mycroft was really rather glad for the hand that smoothed his hair back and hummed a soft lullaby until he fell asleep. Not that he would ever say such a thing aloud.

As it happened [and for far from the first time] Father was absent. An extended luncheon at the club, apparently. He had a lot of those, as well as late-night dinner parties and other obligations that kept him from home. No one in the household was allowed to comment on the absences and neither did Mycroft speak of other things that he had seen. [Watching was something he had become very good at.]

At any rate, since Father was not present, Mycroft sat alone at the table until Mummy made her slow way out onto the veranda.

Everybody was still pretending that nothing was seriously wrong.

Mycroft wondered if they all thought that he was an idiot. Did they really believe that he hadn’t noticed that his mother was…fading away?

Emmeline Holmes had never been a strong woman, Mycroft knew that, had always known that. Even back in the city she did not lead a very active life. But most of the time, at least, she was _there._ Attending at least one or two luncheons each week and the occasional dinner party. She even took Mycroft to the theatre sometimes. But at the same time, it was impossible not to know that she was always paler than fashion dictated and frequently begging one elixir or another from the doctor.

Of course, the dreadful journey to Simla had been difficult for everyone. But especially for Mummy. The nearly 1200 mile, five-day trek required travel by horse, elephant, bullock cart and, finally, sedan chair. Once at the destination, his mother had been carried into the cottage and put straight to bed.

In the weeks since, she had shown no improvement. If anything, she had declined even further, becoming, it seemed, something of a pale wraith.

But at least she was out of bed today.

As she walked carefully onto the veranda, Mummy was helped along by Miss O’Hara, her maid. She was a sturdy Irish woman who, like Nanny, had come to India with his parents years ago and never left. Mummy was wearing a loose-fitting white gown, almost like something a native would wear, rather than being bound up by the corsets and crinolines of the English population.

Mycroft rose when the two women appeared and he stayed on his feet until Mummy was comfortably settled and Miss O’Hara began to serve the tea. As he took his seat again, Mycroft was reminded of a book he’d read not long ago, something Mr Hall had offered. His mother was very like The Woman in White, he thought, almost like a ghost gliding through the world. Would she eventually become so pale and fragile that he would no longer be able to see her at all?

He smiled at her and picked up a ginger biscuit, as he began to tell his mother about the birds he had seen earlier.

*

2

“That is rather heavy reading for such a lovely summer afternoon, isn’t it?”

Mycroft glanced up as Mr Hall joined him on the veranda. “I overheard Father talking about it with one of his friends. It sounded interesting.”

They were long past the point where his tutor felt the need to chastise his charge for the bad habit of ‘over-hearing’ the words of others. Occasionally, he predicted that Mycroft would end up as one of Victoria’s spies. Mycroft thought that perhaps he would not mind such a fate.

Mr Hall sat at the table as well and poured himself a glass of lemonade. “And are you finding it of interest?”

Mycroft saved his place in the book with the embroidered silk bookmark that belonged to Mummy and considered his response carefully before speaking. “I find the idea of moral goodness as opposed to legitimate power rather interesting.”

“Do you not think that the two can co-exist?” Mr Hall was acceptable as a tutor because his questions were never judgemental. Also, he never once expressed the opinion that anything Mycroft read was unacceptable for a boy of his age.

Mycroft took a sip of the lemonade. “I think it is irrelevant, actually,” he said. “A moral person is no more entitled to power than an immoral one.”

Mr Hall just nodded slightly. “You might want to give some thought to what kind of a society would spring from that philosophy,” was all he said.

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, then opened the book again.

Mr Hall took out his ever-present edition of the Sonnets and they read in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

Both of them ignored or pretended to ignore the arrival of the doctor. The tall, spare man, who was always in a hurry, now came every day at the same time to see Mummy. His visits were always brief.

They never talked about it.

Unusually, later that week, Father was in for dinner.

Nanny warned him, so Mycroft had donned a proper jacket and tie. Most evenings now, he sat alone at the table or invited Mr Hall to join him, but the tutor seemed to feel that only once a week was it acceptable for them to dine together. Any more than that was, apparently, inappropriate. Other evenings, Mycroft just took a tray in his room with Nanny. That good woman sometimes seemed to be [prematurely] in a state of bereavement. All she lacked was the black crape.

Of course, they never talked about it either.

Father was already at the table when Mycroft walked in. A glass of whisky sat in front of him. “Sir,” Mycroft said, before taking his seat.

“Mr Hall reports that you are excelling in your studies,” Father said. “That speaks well of your future success when you go to school.”

Mycroft preferred to never think about the subject of going away to school. Going to a country of which he had no memory, having sailed away from it when he was less than six months of age. He did not speak until the young Sikh man whose name he had never actually learned had served their meal and slipped away again. “Mr Hall is not tedious as a tutor,” he said then.

“You have been reading Machiavelli.” It was not a question.

Mycroft carefully cut into the piece of chicken. “I was, yes. Now, at Mr Hall’s suggestion, I have moved on to John Locke.”

Father frowned just a bit, but then seemed to accept the idea. “Do not become too entranced by Locke,” was all he said.

Mycroft chewed and swallowed. “I think Mr Hall is hoping that I will strike some sort of balance.”

The glance aimed at him was distinctly sceptical.

The rest of the meal passed in silence, until the pudding dishes had been cleared away and another whisky set in front of Father. “You should spend some time with your mother this evening,” he said.

Mycroft just nodded. He could have pointed out that he visited her bedroom every night and then asked when Father had done more than just stick his head into the room for a hasty greeting. But he said nothing.

“I have a meeting that will keep me out late, so tell her I said goodnight.”

Mycroft wished that he were older so that he would be taken seriously. So that he had some power. Whether that power was moral or otherwise did not matter to him at the moment. “I will,” he said, knowing very well that he would say no such thing.

One night some weeks ago, he had gone outside, with binoculars in hand, using the excuse that he was looking for an Indian Nightjar so that he could add the name to his birding list; it was a nocturnal creature, so the idea was logical.

Of course, other things were nocturnal as well.

Mycroft climbed into the jujube tree and from that perch was able to follow the sedan chair that was taking his father down into the town itself. He briefly lost sight of the vehicle, but then it reappeared and he could see it stop in front of a bright yellow cottage that probably belonged to one of the Anglo-English who inhabited that neighbourhood. It was not the first time he had watched Father visit that house.

By that time, the darkness had descended and he could see no more.

On this night, however, he did not bother to go outside to watch Father’s journey.

Instead, he went to his room and donned his nightshirt and dressing gown. Nanny was in bed already, so there was no one to nag him into wearing his slippers. He picked up the copy of _Miss Marjoribanks_ , the new novel by Margaret Oliphant that he was reading to his mother. It was drivel of the worst sort, in his opinion, but Mummy enjoyed it. Barefooted, he padded to her bedroom.

She was propped up by several pillows and looked no less pale than she had looked for weeks, but she smiled when he came in. Miss O’Hara gave him another smile and slipped away to give them privacy. He knew she would go no farther than a chair in the corridor. “Hello, darling,” Mummy said in a wispy voice.

“Hello,” he said, kissing her cheek and then held up the novel. “I thought you might enjoy some more of the adventures of Lucilla in the village of Carlingford.”

“Oh, you are a good son.”

He sat in the bedside chair, opened the book and began to read.

*

3

Every Wednesday afternoon Captain Harrow would arrive for Mycroft’s fencing lesson. This, like the birdwatching, was something that Mr Hall had suggested, after Father insisted that some sort of sporting activity be included in the curriculum.

Sport was not something in which Mycroft was at all interested. Unless he were forced to do so, he never even went to watch Father’s polo matches. Just what was Mycroft supposed to take up? Tennis? Cricket? It was ridiculous. But then the tutor suggested fencing and went about finding Captain Harrow, a soft-spoken yet battle-toughened infantry officer, to instruct Mycroft.

And, surprisingly, Mycroft discovered that he did not hate it entirely.

Initially, he had been intrigued by a quote Mr Hall had found. _It has been said that the character of a person can be learned in just five minutes of fencing with them_. A skill like that could be quite useful, Mycroft thought. At the same time it also felt like a warning to him that he must learn to school his own reactions from his opponents. And not necessarily only those he would encounter through swordplay.

Captain Harrow himself was an amiable chap who had impressed Mycroft from the off by bringing with him to their first lesson a fragile copy of Domenico Angelo’s 1763 volume on fencing. For an hour, he simply let Mycroft browse carefully through the twenty-five engraved plates by artist Gwyn Delin. The plates were precise renderings of the classic fencing positions.

Mycroft suspected that clever Mr Hall had encouraged the Captain to pursue a more intellectual approach to the subject. Almost despite himself, he realised that it might be challenging to learn how to use the epee and sabre that Father had already provided. With the proviso, of course, that he would receive regular reports on his progress.

On this particular afternoon, they were employing the military style sabre, Mycroft practising cutting and thrusting against the upper body.

“Well done,” the Captain said as they finished one more revolution through the proper positions.

Mycroft did not, as a rule, appreciate perspiring, but now he grinned while wiping the dampness from his face. Mr Hall was watching from the veranda, to where a pitcher of lemonade had just been delivered. Mycroft and his instructor left the equipment and went to join the tutor.

After a few minutes, as they drank lemonade and ate the fresh-baked biscuits, [Mycroft made a mental note to praise Cook, as the biscuits were quite good this time] Captain Harrow reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “I saw this in a copy of Sporting Gazette and thought that you might find it of some interest.”

When he unfolded the sheet, Mycroft saw that it was an advertisement. The drawing was of an ebony-handled umbrella that contained a thin sword within that handle.

It was indeed of interest and when Captain Harrow said that Mycroft could keep the advertisement, Mycroft decided that he would mount it to the wall over his bed, where he would be able to see it every night.

One day, Mycroft determined, he would own one of those umbrellas.

That night, Mycroft slipped out of the house long enough to watch Father go down into the town again, to the same bungalow he had visited before.

*

4

Mycroft thought that it was going to take them a very long time to get through Wives and Daughters, the novel by Mrs Gaskell, that he was now reading to Mummy. Although she had told him more than once how much she was enjoying the tale of Molly Gibon, daughter of a widowed doctor, Mummy rarely managed to stay awake for longer than ten minutes. He always stayed for the full hour anyway, not reading, but just watching Mummy sleep. Although he tried to be grown-up and scientific about it, Mycroft could not help but remember that it was his mummy lying there so pale and still. So ethereal and so clearly dying. He sometimes wondered if she would not rather just get it all over with.

He also wondered if she were still holding on to life just because of him, because she believed that a mother should not abandon her child, and that possibility made him feel guilty.

After a moment, he leant back in the chair and closed his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of a household settling down for the night and the nearer soft pattern of his mother’s breathing. It was all oddly soothing and he almost drifted into sleep himself.

Someone in the kitchen dropped a pot, but the sound was muffled by the walls between them.

The sigh, when it came, was so soft that he almost didn’t hear it at all.

Even before Mycroft opened his eyes he knew what that sigh meant. He stayed as he was for just a few moments, because as long as he didn’t open his eyes and actually _see_ what had happened, everything could remain static. His world would not tilt.

But finally he did open his eyes and rise to stand next to the bed.

She looked [although he despised the triteness of the phrase] at peace.

Mycroft just stood there for a moment, feeling like a child. _[Because I am!_ ] What should his next move be? At that thought, he pictured a chess board, absurdly enough, upon which the queen was gone. With one hand that trembled just a little, he carefully pushed hair from her forehead, smoothing it back. Would it be appropriate to kiss her cheek the way he always did before leaving the room?

He thought that it might be and so he bent over to press his lips against skin that already felt as if it were cooling.

When he straightened, Mycroft knew what his next step had to be. He tucked the shirt back into his trousers properly and returned the dangling braces to his shoulders before opening the door.

Miss O’Hara seemed to read something in his face and she stood slowly, tears already forming in her eyes. She was a soft-hearted woman, so there would undoubtedly be lots of crying over the next few days.

Mycroft turned towards his bedroom so that he could put his stockings and shoes back on. “I am going to fetch my father,” he said.

Miss O’Hara frowned. “Should you do that? Do you even know where he is?”

There were no secrets in a household. Not even from the staff. Perhaps especially from them.

And, Mycroft realised fully for the first time, not even from a dying woman.

“I know,” Mycroft said flatly.

“Shouldn’t you send Aadi?” she pressed.

It took a moment before he realised that she was talking about the young Sikh who served at table. He shook his head. “It is my duty.” He took one step and then paused again. “Go sit with her. Please.” He knew it was ridiculous and that it was of no matter to Mummy, but suddenly he did not want her to be alone. Not yet.

Miss O’Hara just nodded and took a deep breath before opening the door and stepping inside.

In only two minutes, Mycroft was ready to leave the house. He knew the fastest way down into the town and to which bungalow he had to go. Luckily, the last of the daylight had not faded quite yet, so he was able to see his way easily.

He did not hesitate once he had arrived at his destination and immediately pounded on the bright yellow door.

The stern-faced older Indian woman who opened the door looked surprised at see a child standing there.

“I need to see Mr Holmes,” Mycroft said immediately.

She was standing so as to block his way. “What? Who are you?”

He did not bother to repeat himself, instead just pushing by the woman and stepping inside. Such rudeness did not come naturally to him, but perhaps a crisis loosened the rules somewhat. When her eyes flickered involuntarily in the direction of a closed door, he headed that way.

As he had suspected, the room was a small parlour. Inside were two people, relaxing very close together on a settee. His father had removed his jacket and waistcoat and was holding a glass of wine in one hand. The other hand was gently stroking the dark hair of a young Anglo-Indian woman curled up beside him. They both startled when he burst into the room, his father very nearly spilling the wine.

Father recovered his composure and set the glass down carefully on the table. “Mycroft,” he began.

He was still catching his breath after the journey down into the town, but Mycroft pulled his shoulders back and spoke as firmly as he could. “Sorry, sir,” he said, disdain dripping from the words. “Don’t mean to interrupt your…evening, but I thought that you ought to know that your wife has just died.”

There was a long moment of heavy silence in the room. Finally, his father stood, reaching for the discarded waistcoat. Once he had the façade of a proper gentleman in place again, he looked at the young woman, who only gave a small nod in response.

Mycroft spun around on his heels and left the room.

Father followed him.

The sedan chair was waiting behind the bungalow and they both climbed in.

Not one word was spoken between father and son as they returned home.

*

5

Plans for an appropriate funeral were quickly put into place. So quickly, in fact, that Mycroft realised most of the details must have already been arranged in anticipation of this very circumstance. He had to admire the efficiency.

At the same time, however, he had moments when admiration for the logic of the plans shifted to a feeling that those in charge, those who had anticipated this, were not unlike vultures circling a mortally wounded creature, just waiting for the opportunity to strike. He tried to push those thoughts aside, because, of course, he had to go on living amongst those planners.

Because of his age, Mycroft was not required to don mourning dress. Nevertheless, he insisted on procuring a black ribbon to tie around his sleeve on the day of the service. Nanny was in a proper state and quite useless at the moment, so Mr Hall helped him affix the ribbon properly. Mycroft was sympathetic to the old lady, because with Mummy gone and he now ten years of age, her position in the household was even more tenuous. He supposed Father might simply send her back to England, although at her age such a voyage might be hazardous. 

Rather than Father, it had been Mr Hall who explained to him that instead of burial Mummy would be cremated. That way her ashes could one day be returned to England and rest on British soil as had been her wish.

Mycroft found that he was not especially bothered by the idea. In actual fact, he thought that cremation was a rather better idea than mouldering in the ground of this foreign place. Not that it mattered to Mummy anymore, of course. He didn’t think that it did, at any rate.

The actual service was rather better attended than he’d thought it would be, although he supposed it shouldn’t have been a surprise, given how much all the British residents of Simla enjoyed a gathering. A few high status Anglo-Indians attended as well, although not the dark-haired woman.

The vicar, a short, plump man with no hair at all on the top of his head, spoke in a kindly voice about life and death and what came after. No one except Nanny and Miss O’Hara cried. Mycroft occupied his mind by conjugating Latin verbs.

There was a gathering afterwards, as was expected by society, held in the small church hall. Tea and sandwiches and tiny cakes were served and several of the gentlemen passed around flasks. Mycroft moved through the crowd silently, listening to snippets of conversation. No one was actually talking about Mummy.

The women were judging the refreshments and the clothing of others. The men seemed concentrated on the resignation of Lord Russell after the vote of no confidence and the violent demonstrations in faraway Hyde Park calling for parliamentary reform.

Mycroft found a quiet corner and stood there holding a plate with an untouched sandwich on it. After a few moments, Mr Hall saw him and walked over. “How are you faring?” the tutor asked quietly.

Mycroft shrugged. “I’m fine.”

Mr Hall seemed unconvinced. “”For all that you are frightfully precocious, with an amazing brain, you are still a child who has lost his mother.”

“It was not unexpected, sir. Although everyone liked to pretend otherwise, I knew she was dying.” He finally took a small bite of the sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “I found a quote from Herodatus. ‘Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.’ I think that might be true for women as well, right?”

“Undoubtedly.”

That seemed to end the conversation, so they just stood in silence and watched Father receive the sympathy of the guests in his usual dignified and stately manner. He looked solemn, if not especially sad.

*

The long day finally ended and they returned to the house.

Mycroft sat on the veranda and made notes in his journal until dinner was announced. Rather surprisingly, Father joined him at the table. The only topic of conversation concerned when they would be returning to Calcutta as the summer was drawing to a close.

There were questions Mycroft wanted to ask about the future, but he thought perhaps they should wait until another day.

After the meal had ended, Mycroft took his new genuine Army binoculars and climbed the jujube tree to watch as the sedan chair carried his father down into the town.

He stayed in the branches until full dark had fallen and wondered if he should have cried at some point. It seemed pointless to do so now. Instead, he finally climbed down and went to bed.

**


	3. A Strong Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's life is changing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is one day late, but yesterday went on rather longer than I thought. All went well and thanks for the good wishes.
> 
> Poor Mycroft's life continues to be bumpy, but for those of you wondering, Sherlock will be appearing very soon. Meanwhile, this chapter features a guest appearance by a canon character. 
> 
> I hope you are enjoying this and do so appreciate hearing from you.

The strong man is strongest when alone.

-Friedrich Schiller

1

The house in Calcutta was not haunted.

Mycroft knew that very well, of course, because he was fully aware that ghosts did not exist. It mattered not at all if perhaps [secretly] someone halfway wanted a spectre of the recently departed to appear in the parlour. Naturally, he was not that ‘someone’; he did not want ghosts to exist, because he preferred the world to be a logical, understandable place. To have unpredictable spirits roaming everywhere would create havoc. Mycroft was not fond of havoc.

At the same time, admittedly, Mycroft was not terribly conversant on the subject of physics. [Mr Hall was always perfectly honest about his own shortcomings.] But even with his limited knowledge, Mycroft felt fairly confident that the rules of that science did not allow for such things as ghosts.

Still, regardless of all that, despite his firm belief in all things rational, Mycroft could reluctantly admit that there was a bit of expectation or perhaps just hope that some evidence of his mother’s existence would still linger in the corridors of the place where she had lived. But such did not seem to be the case.

After the months spent in Simla, the scent of her perfume [bergamot and lemon, which Mycroft had always found vaguely comforting] had faded, overcome by both time and the heavier scent of lilium candidums in heavy crystal vases scattered throughout the house to overcome the smells of the city just beyond the walls.

It was also apparent that, in preparation for their return from the mountains and probably on Father’s orders, the servants had cleared the house of Mummy’s things. Or possibly the helpful ladies of the British community who had already come back to Calcutta for the winter had thought to spare the widower from this onerous duty and done it themselves.

So it felt to Mycroft as if she had never even existed. The only evidence to the contrary was a single daguerreotype of his mother before she had sailed for India with her husband. In the image she looked young and pretty, seemingly eager for the great adventure that awaited her. That girl was so different from the woman Mycroft had known over the past few years. The picture was still in its place on the mantel in the parlour, almost hidden by another vase of lilies. He remembered looking at it while listening to Mummy tell him the story of her months long voyage with an infant and Nanny in tow, followed by her arrival in a strange new country.

After a moment’s thought, he took the daguerreotype to his room and put it on the small table beside his bed. It seemed unlikely that anyone would care or even notice what he had done.

Nanny might have done, but she was no longer here.

Right after their return to Calcutta, the elderly lady had decided [no doubt encouraged by Father] to move into a boarding house for gentlewomen with neither the means nor the desire to embark upon the long and wearying voyage back to a country they had left years before. Mycroft thought he missed her a bit, although it was possible that was because her departure was just one more absence in his life.

He kept reminding himself that he should ask Father about visiting her.

Except that Father was terribly busy at the moment, spending long days at his government office and most of his evenings, apparently, at his club. His excuse was that he was consumed with getting ready for the change in the fiscal year being introduced.

Mr Hall, meanwhile, had intensified Mycroft’s lessons, occasionally muttering words about preparing him for a more structured environment, but Mycroft ignored that and concentrated on doing the very best work that he could. Perhaps, he thought occasionally, if he continued to do very well here, the idea of sending him to England, no doubt destined for Eton, because that was where the men of the Holmes family went, would be forgotten.

Not that ‘here’ was such a good place to be right now, but at the very least it was familiar.

He had to accept that familiarity was the best he could hope for now.

*

His new fencing instructor was Monsieur Benoit, a lean Frenchman with a history that would probably not bear much looking into, but he had friends in the government, so despite the sometimes testy relationship between the Empire and Benoit’s homeland, Mr Holmes was happy to send his son to the slightly shabby studio above a tailor’s workshop to continue his fencing lessons.

The most important things Monsieur taught him were the necessity of a good defence and that it was always best to attack where the opponent least expected it. Obvious, but easily over-looked amongst all the flashy swordplay. Mycroft made a careful note of the advice in his journal.

A sudden and heavy storm was in progress outside the studio as Mycroft worked to perfect the _passata soto._ Monsieur lunged and Mycroft dropped to the ground and then the reverse over and over until they both became aware that Mr Hall had arrived to accompany Mycroft home.

The rain had dwindled to a heavy mist by the time they were settled into the carriage. It was quiet within the brougham as the driver expertly manoeuvred through the clamour and press of Calcutta. Mr Hall seemed preoccupied with the letter in his hand, not reading it, but only folding and unfolding it repeatedly. Obviously, it was from his intended, but Mycroft did not enquire as to the contents that had his tutor so agitated. Matters of the heart were not Mycroft’s forte.

As soon as they were back at the house, Mr Hall set him the task of reading the next few chapters of Herodotus’ Histories, as much as possible in the Greek. After giving him the assignment, the tutor took himself off to his small room, which was located in the no man’s land between the family rooms and where the servants slept, no doubt to pen a response to Miss McKenzie back in England.

The house was quiet, save for the sound of rain, which was once again pounding down outside the windows. Mycroft was intent upon his reading and found a quote that quite appealed to him. He took a moment to carefully copy it into his ever-present journal. So often was the small leather bound volume in his hand that Mr Hall had teasingly accused him of wanting to be the new Dr Samuel Johnson.

_Of all men’s miseries, the bitterest is this: to know so much and to have control over nothing._

He read the line over several times, considering its meaning. It might make for a very good guiding principle. Finally, he returned to Herodotus.

It was only a few moments later that an explosion of thunder seemed to shake the house on its very foundation and startled Mycroft so much that his fountain pen flew across the room. Once he had recovered his breath, he stood and walked over to retrieve the pen; luckily, no ink had spilled. Before returning to his chair, he paused to look out of the window at the roiling black clouds that had moved over the city. The sight made him uneasy without knowing why it should do so.

Weather, after all, was not a portend.

But it made him aware of just how little power Mycroft Holmes had to control anything.

Finally, he sat down again, although it was several more minutes before he engaged with Herodotus once more.

*

2

Just few days later, Calcutta was a much less dark city.

A blue sky and bright sun presaged the approach of spring. Mycroft had spent the morning in the fencing studio and was quite pleased with the progress of his sabre work. Also, he had amused himself with trying to decipher just whom it was Monsieur was spying for. He had narrowed it down to either Russia or the United States.

So he was feeling rather cheerful as he headed for his bedroom to change when Mr Hall stopped him. “I have been informed that your father wants you to wear your good suit this afternoon,” he said. “Make sure you look your best.”

“For a lesson on geometric equations?” Mycroft questioned sceptically.

Mr Hall only shrugged. “Come to the classroom when you have changed.”

It had actually been several days since Mycroft had seen his father, beyond a brief encounter over the breakfast table once and a glimpse of his profile as he hurried off to work on another morning. But now it appeared that he was dictating wardrobe decisions. Piqued, Mycroft nevertheless did as ordered and appeared in the small room where he and Mr Hall held their daily lessons in his navy blue trousers and jacket, with a clean shirt and collar as well.

They set to work straightaway and had made decent progress [especially considering the fact that mathematics was far from Mycroft’s favourite subject, although geometry was less tedious than algebra had been] before Aadi tapped lightly on the door. “Master Mycroft,” he said softly, “your father requests your presence in the parlour.” He waited for a nod of acknowledgement, then moved silently away.

Mycroft looked at Mr Hall, who only shrugged. “Best not dawdle,” was all the tutor said.

He stood, smoothing the front of his jacket, and took a deep breath.  
The corridor seemed endless, but finally he reached the closed door and knocked with rather more confidence than he was actually feeling.

“Come in, Mycroft,” his father said.

Mycroft opened the door and stepped into the room. His father was sitting in one of the leather wing chairs, as expected, but he was not alone. A woman was perched on the edge of the settee, looking to be on the verge of flight if it should prove necessary. She was dressed in a fashionable long skirt and a basque, both in pale ivory with elaborate embroidery. Her long dark hair was pinned up, topped with a small yellow straw hat adorned with small white flowers.

Mycroft recognised her immediately. He had last seen her in Simla, on the night his mother died.

Father finally spoke, breaking the uneasy silence. “This is Miss Ananda Patel Fleming. And this is my son, Mycroft.”

“I remember her,” Mycroft replied. “Although I never knew her name.”

Father frowned.

“Hello,” Mycroft said politely.

The woman only smiled at him.

“Have a seat,” Father said. Ordered.

Mycroft moved to the other chair and sat, his back straight, hands on his knees.

The door opened again and Aadi pushed the tea trolley into the room. Several minutes passed as tea was poured and cake served. When the servant had departed, Father took a long sip of his tea before fixing his gaze on Mycroft. “Geometry today, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, his attention quite deliberately centred on the cake.

To his surprise, the woman spoke. Her voice was soft, cultured, with very little trace of her native heritage. She might have been taking tea in Mayfair, Mycroft imagined. “I always rather enjoyed my mathematical studies,” she said. “Although I am afraid that my father did not really approve of a female sullying her mind with such things.”

“You have always been something of a rebel,” Father said fondly.

Mycroft tried to remember the last time he had last heard that tone used on his mother. Long before she’d died, that was certain. The ins and outs of adult relationships were not a thing to which Mycroft had paid very much attention. Most of what he knew had come from those dreadful books he’d read aloud to Mummy on so many nights. He was not so stupid as to believe such florid tales had anything to do with reality.

For a fleeting moment, Mycroft wished that he had not so quickly dismissed Mr Hall’s suggestion that he might want to read some Austen. He took a small bite of the cake, realising that Father was giving him a stern look, as if he were expecting Mycroft to say something. “I prefer history and philosophy,” he murmured, the words directed to his teacup.

“A good basis for a career in politics,” she said, “if that is where your ambitions lie.”

He shrugged. “One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors,” he said. Then he set his empty teacup down carefully. “Plato,” he added.

There was another silence in the room.

Mycroft was aware of Miss Fleming looking at Father rather pointedly.

The man took a deep breath. “Mycroft,” he said, “I wanted you to join us for tea so that I could give you some news.”

Mycroft carefully deconstructed the remains of his cake with the tines of the fork.

“Ananda and I are to be married.”

For some odd reason, Mycroft was suddenly aware of the perfume that this woman was wearing. It was composed of spices and civet. Abruptly, he ached with the missing of Mummy’s scent of bergamot and lemon.

After a moment, Mycroft stood. “Congratulations,” he said, making the barest hint of a bow.

Then he left the room, taking care to close the door very quietly.

*

3

Mycroft understood the importance of strategy. Of planning. Spontaneity could be dangerous. So it was something of a surprise to find himself acting with no plan at all. After telling Mr Hall that he had a headache and did not feel up to further equations, he went to his room and carefully packed a few essentials into the military knapsack that Captain Harrow had gifted to him when they’d left Simla. Lastly, he tucked the daguerreotype of his mother in-between the clean stockings and several pairs of short drawers. At the last minute, he added a small candle and several matchsticks.

When the maid came to tell him that dinner was being served, he repeated the story about a headache and sent her away. Then he just sat on his bed and waited.

There was no plan. He only knew that this house no longer felt like home and that he needed to get away. 

At one point, he went to the window and looked down to watch his father hand the woman into a carriage. It was all very proper, a gentleman and his fiancé parting company.

A bit later, Mr Hall tapped at the door. Mycroft answered his knock, but did not invite him in. “I heard the news,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, of course,” Mycroft replied, hoping that the knapsack was not visible.

Mr Harrow smiled a bit. “Tomorrow is Richard III, don’t forget.”

After a moment, Mycroft gave a small smile in return. “Better than Hamlet,” he replied, closing the door.

Alone again, he returned to the bed and waited for darkness.

It was very strange to be out on the streets alone, especially at night.

There were still people out and about, of course, because there always were. Luckily, none of them seemed to pay any attention to one boy walking on his own, despite his clearly expensive clothing and the knapsack. He did duck behind a parked carriage once, to avoid the policeman doing a perfunctory patrol around the red and cream High Court building.

He reached Dalhousie Square, then passed the East India Company headquarters.

Mycroft realised fairly quickly that it would have been prudent to have had a destination in mind before setting out, but it was too late for regrets. Finally, he arrived at the Park Street Cemetery and decided that the no longer used burial grounds would be a good place to hide. No, not hide. A good place to pause and consider his future. Getting in involved scaling a fence, but he made it with only one small tear in his jacket. Once inside, he lit the candle and walked around in its flickering pale glow until found a small corner just behind a large memorial. Clearly it belonged to someone of status, given the images of black basalt on the front façade and the Orissan carvings on each corner.

The moon was bright in the sky now, so he blew out the candle flame. 

He sat in the grass, knapsack on his lap, and contemplated his life.

That activity did not improve his mood.

He was not aware of falling asleep until he actually woke up, startled into awareness by the presence of another person. His heart was pounding. He realised that his knapsack had fallen to the ground and that the intruder was searching it. “I say,” he blurted out. “Leave my possessions alone.”

The boy, because it was a boy of about his own age, stopped his search and looked up. He was thin to the point of scrawniness, wearing a filthy shirt and ragged trousers held up by a length of rope. “Balls,” he said. “Thought maybe you was dead.”

Mycroft straightened and grabbed his knapsack. “A gentleman does not search through another’s property,” he snapped.

“Oh, you’re a real bootlicker, ain’t ya?”

“You’re British?” Mycroft said, honestly surprised.

“What? Just cause I ain’t a rich toff I can’t be as British as you?”

“No, I didn’t mean…” Mycroft was not sure what to say.

Abruptly, he remembered one of Mr Hall’s lesson, back when the tutor first arrived, about social inequality in Calcutta, even between the British who lived there. One afternoon, Father overheard the lesson and he was not best pleased. “Less John Stuart Mill and more Disraeli, if you don’t mind, Mr Hall,” was all he said.

Now Mycroft realised that he was looking at a boy who clearly lived a life much different from his own. “Do you have parents?”  
“Course I do. My old man works on building the railroad.”

“Then why are you poor?” Mycroft thought that this was an interesting conversation and looked forward to sharing it with Mr Hall. Out of Father’s hearing, of course. And then he remembered that he had run away and was never going back.

The boy just shrugged. “He drinks. My mam takes in laundry. I get along.”

“By thieving?” Mycroft said. Then he shook his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled, remembering that Mummy had never liked him to be rude to those in unfortunate circumstances. “What’s your name?”

“Most people call me Seb.”

“Mycroft Holmes.” He held out his hand and they shook. Mycroft shook off the urge to wipe his hand on his handkerchief.

“Why are you hiding in here?” Seb asked.

Mycroft frowned. “I am not ‘hiding’. I’m…thinking.” He reached into the knapsack and pulled out the biscuits wrapped in his spare handkerchief. He had detoured into the pantry to fetch them before leaving. They each took one. “My mother died,” he said, looking at the moon. “And now my father is marrying his mistress.”

“Tough luck,” Seb acknowledged, reaching for another biscuit. 

“Luck?” Mycroft replied disdainfully.

“According to my Da, his old granny swore by the luck of the Irish.”

Mycroft’s gaze skimmed over the boy, taking note of his bare and filthy feet, tangled greasy hair and none-too-clean face. He really was not intending to be rude, but Seb bristled a bit anyway. “I’m gonna make something of myself,” he said fiercely. “Soon as I can, I mean to sign onto a ship and go to Ireland myself. My Da says his kin is probably doing well.” He finished the biscuit. “He wishes he had never come here.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured. Knowing what he did of the Irish situation, he was more than a bit sceptical, but he kept that to himself.

“By the way,” Seb pointed out, “if you run off from your fancy life just cause your old man is marrying his whore that makes you a rare idiot.”

Mycroft pulled his knees up and wrapped both arms around them. “You’re probably right,” he said. Then, because he was basically an honest boy, he added, ”I don’t think she is a…what you said. But she is not my mother.”

Seb searched for another biscuit and frowned when he realised they were all gone. “Go home,” he said. “Unless you fancy some larceny with me?”

Mycroft sighed. “No, thank you.”

“Too bad. I could use a mate sometimes.”

Mycroft tried to picture being ‘mates’ with this grubby and larcenous boy, but he could not really see it. “I don’t actually have…mates,” he said delicately.

“Specially not filthy street rats, I ‘spect,” Seb replied, but he sounded rather cheerful about it. After a moment, he stood and with a sudden move snatched up the knapsack.

Mycroft reached out for it, but something in the other boy’s eyes caused him to pause. Then he said softly, “May I have my mummy’s daguerreotype, please? It’s all I have.” Luckily, as always, his journal was in his pocket.

Seb looked at him for a moment, before reaching into the bag and pulling out the picture. He tossed it at Mycroft and then turned around and hurried off, soon becoming lost in the darkness.

Mycroft tucked the precious object into his pocket with the journal and stood. While Seb might have been a reprobate, with a dubious future, he had made a good point. It was stupid to run off. What did he care whom his father married? There would be little impact on his life.

With a sigh, he made his way out of the cemetery and starting walking back towards the house. Once there, he slipped inside and made it safely to his bedroom.

No one ever knew that he had been gone.

*

4

The day of the wedding was what he supposed every bride would wish for.

Mycroft did very much like the new suit of clothing he was wearing. Especially the fitted waistcoat with silver buttons. It had been made by Father’s own tailor and it made him feel older and very confident. Perhaps Shakespeare had it right when he wrote that clothing made the man.

Despite the current sunshine, he knew that the weather could turn very quickly at this time of the year, so he decided to carry his brolly, just in case. It would be humiliating to get drenched. Ready a bit early, he waited in the foyer for Father to join him for the carriage ride to the church.

Although it had never been discussed within the household [at least not in the hearing of Father or himself] Mycroft was aware that there was the faintest hint of scandal attached to the marriage. At one time, such liaisons were more common and marriage between Englishmen and Indian women was acceptable. But that was no longer the case and even wedding a high-born Anglo-Indian woman like Ananda was frowned upon in society. But Father’s position was now so powerful within the government that any criticism was muted publicly. Ananda would be accepted into society, albeit grudgingly, and then scorned privately.

Mycroft was a bit surprised to realise that he reluctantly admired the fact that Ananda would likely not care very much.

He could hear Father coming, so Mycroft opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine, his brolly in hand.

*

St. John’s church, which stood just north of the Treasury building, was a replica of London’s St. Martin-in-the-Fields. In the churchyard stood the white mausoleum of Job Charnock, the founder of Calcutta back in the 1600s. Mycroft knew the history, of course, although he was not terribly sure just yet how such knowledge would help advance him in life.

There was a respectable attendance at the wedding, a prestigious gathering of government officials, including some highly-ranked Anglo-Indians. There was no one from Ananda’s family. In fact, Mycroft had no idea if she even had any family. She was wearing a white dress, as had been the fashion ever since the Queen’s marriage back in 1840. It was a simple gown, with a minimum of lace or other adornment. Mycroft decided that she looked quite nice.

He paid little attention to the brief ceremony, speaking to no one there or at the breakfast which followed. There would be no wedding trip, because Father was far too busy with work, but the couple would spend their wedding night at the Great Eastern Hotel, where the lavish breakfast was being served. Mycroft did eat and even managed to have a glass of sherry before the carriage arrived to take him home. He did the correct thing and said a quiet goodbye to Father and Ananda before departing.  
Alone in the carriage, he was pleased with himself. His manners had been impeccable and no one could fault his demeanour.

Mycroft Holmes was a polite boy.

*

The next day, Mycroft could tell that something was not quite right as soon as their lessons began. Mr Hall said all the right things about the siege of Chateau Gaillard and the art of Leonardo da Vinci and even managed to connect the two in a rational manner. But something was off. And when, after their morning lessons were finished and his tutor joined him for lunch, Mycroft was expecting something, although he did not know what.

It was over the pudding that Mr Hall finally got to the point. “I know that preparations have begun for the return to Simla, but I wanted to tell you that I will not be accompanying you this time.”

Mycroft took a careful bite of the lemon sponge and swallowed before speaking. “Where will you be?”

Mr Hall sighed, “I am actually returning to England, Mycroft. It’s time for me to go home.”

“And marry Miss McKenzie?”

“Yes. I have been offered a good position in Norfolk, so I can afford to provide for her.”

It was logical, of course, and Mycroft could understand that. The timing was a bit…unfortunate, however. “Of course I wish you well,” Mycroft said after a moment. “Has my father mentioned anything about a new tutor?”

“He has not.”

Mycroft was not yet ready to talk about what that might mean. “When do you depart?” he asked instead.

“In a fortnight. To be honest, I am not looking forward to the voyage. My body does not really approve of sea travel.” Mr Hall smiled at him.

They did not talk again, as they finished their meal and then returned to the classroom for a lesson in the political consequences of the Pyrrhic victory at the Battle of Malplaquet.

**


	4. Strange Creatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft becomes a brother!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all still with me on this journey. And I am happy to announce that in this chapter one Sherlock Holmes makes his entrance. I love your kind comments and kudos for this story, which is very special to me. Let me know what you think!

Brothers are strange creatures.

-Jane Austen

1

Mycroft was allowed to accompany Mr Hall to the docks on the day he was sailing for England. The carriage ride was conducted mostly in silence, as there was really nothing left to be said. The tutor [former tutor, Mycroft thought] made mention of several books that he thought perhaps Mycroft might want to read in the coming months. Obviously, his intention was to help his student prepare completely for going away to school. Which was still a subject that Mycroft was not eager to contemplate.

Finally, Mr Hall gave him a smile. “You’ll be fine, you know, Mycroft. You are intelligent and quick to learn. In fact, I only worry that Eton will not be enough of a challenge for you.”

Mycroft shifted his gaze to stare out at the noisy, crowded street scene. “The courses do not bother me,” he said honestly.

Mr Hall gave a soft hum of understanding. “It will be a new experience for you,” he admitted. “But if you plan to run the Empire one day, you had best start understanding its people.”

“Huh,” Mycroft said inelegantly. “I never said anything about running the Empire.”

Mr Hall grinned. “You didn’t have to say anything. I could just see it in you.”

Mycroft thought about it for a few moments. “Do you think I should become prime minister?”

Mr Hall was absently fingering the most recent letter from his fiancé, which was just visible in his waistcoat pocket. It was quite obvious that his mind had already moved on from the life he’d had in India. From Mycroft as well. Which was fine, of course, perfectly right. As they approached the noise and ruckus of the waterfront, he finally spoke. “I do not think that such a public position would suit you much.” This time his smile was smaller, more serious. “I see Mycroft Holmes more as the power behind the throne.”

The carriage drew to a stop and the driver climbed down to begin unloading the luggage. A small, but powerfully-built man with coppery skin appeared with a handcart and the bags were piled in. Mr Hall stepped out of the carriage and Mycroft followed him. He thought back to the words he had practised the night before. “I want to thank you, sir, for all the help you have given me. And to wish you well in the future.” He held out his hand.

Mr Hall took the hand into his own. “And I wish you the best, Mycroft. It has been most gratifying to see your progress.”

They shook once, firmly, before Mr Hall turned and followed the cart with his luggage towards the awaiting ship. He paused once, at the top of the gangplank, turning to give a brisk wave, which Mycroft returned.

Then the man was gone, swallowed up in a swarm of other passengers.

Mycroft watched for a further moment. The driver was back in position and he cleared his throat pointedly. 

After one last look at the ship, Mycroft climbed inside again, settling back in the seat for the journey.

*

Just a few days later, final preparations were being made for the annual trek to Simla. Mycroft tried not to think overly much about the fact that he was fairly certain that this would be the last time he made the journey. The realisation gave him funny sort of feeling in his chest, which he decided was because the cottage in Simla was the place he last saw his mother.

Sentiment.

There had still been no discussion of replacing Mr Hall as his tutor. Instead, Father made certain that the servants packed a large chest with books that he clearly expected Mycroft to read over the coming months. No doubt all in preparation for Eton.

As he had expected, his father’s marriage affected his own life very little. It was therefore not until the morning they were leaving for Simla that he paid much attention at all to Ananda, noticing the elaborate efforts to assure her comfort. Startled, he studied her carefully and suddenly he knew.

Ananda was aware of his gaze and after a moment, she gave him a faint smile. “You clever boy,” she said softly. “Yes, in a few months you will be a brother.”

Mycroft had no idea what to say to that, so he followed his natural inclination and said nothing.

Just then, Father joined them in the carriage and they started to move.

Mycroft picked up the book he was reading, without really remembering what it was. He had a feeling that the upcoming birth was the final step before his exile.

*

2

Life had taken on a languid feel.

Father and Ananda played only a very small role in the usual unrelenting social life of the British community in Simla. Mycroft was unsure whether that was due to her delicate condition [although she did not appear to be very fragile to him, despite the pregnancy] or to the continuing low hum of gossip surrounding the marriage itself. No one would even cast a glance at Father, of course; truthfully, the other men seemed to have very little problem with his marriage to an Anglo-Indian woman. Probably, Mycroft reasoned, because she was a quite lovely woman, at least as far as he understood such things.

It was their wives who gossiped the most, tutting and shaking their heads when they thought no one was watching. Mycroft, however, was always watching. It was not that he felt any particular loyalty to Ananda or, certainly, to Father. His only real interest was in observing the people involved.

If you plan to run the Empire, you best start to understand its people.

He was not yet ready to concede that point to Mr Hall, but acknowledged to himself that knowledge was never a bad thing, no matter his future ambitions.

Still, as the weeks went by, there were a few more dinner parties, a few more tea parties on the veranda. Apparently, the combination of Father’s ever-increasing power and Ananda’s undeniably charming nature was serving to erode the disapproval. 

Before too long, however, it became improper for Ananda to be seen in mixed company, so the only visitors were a few ladies coming to tea.

As for Mycroft himself, he spent most of his time curled in a corner reading his way through the pile of books, just as father wanted. Sometimes, he ventured out to supplement the data in his birding journal, passing the afternoon with the binoculars to his eyes, finding clarity and peace in the avian activity.

One such afternoon, perched in the tree, he watched as a horse approached the cottage. Finally, he could see the rider and realised that it was Captain Harrow, his former fencing instructor. Quickly, Mycroft climbed down, smoothed his hair and straightened his jacket. When he reached the veranda, he called for the maid to bring some refreshments and turned to greet the Captain.

A few moments later, they were both at the table, lemonade and ginger biscuits in front of them. “Are you keeping up with your training?” Harrow asked, reaching for a biscuit from the tray.

“I have been,” Mycroft replied. He gave a half-smile. “I do fear that my instructor is rather a reprobate. A Frenchman named Benoit. As wily as one of his nation can be and a very good swordsman, but I fear he will come to a bad end.”

Harrow nodded. “I know the name and I fear that you are correct.”

Mycroft crumbled a biscuit rather than eat it. “I don’t suppose it matters much, as I shan’t be his pupil for much longer.” He glanced at Harrow quickly and then looked at the little pile of crumbs, running his forefinger through them. “I think they are sending me away.”

“You mean sending you home for school, I assume.”

He shrugged. “Can a place I left soon after birth and have no memory of really be home?”

“You are an Englishman of a certain class,” Harrow said firmly. “That gives you both privilege and responsibilities. It is important that you are educated so that you may take your proper place in society.”

Mycroft, still playing with the crumbs, frowned a bit. Captain Harrow sounded more like Father now, rather than his friendly fencing instructor. Just for a moment, he wanted to tell the man what Mr Hall had said about him running the Empire one day. But Mycroft was well-schooled in the art of discretion, so, instead, he just finished his lemonade. “Would you like to see what Monsieur Benoit has taught me?”

“Certainly.”

So he fetched his rapier, removed his jacket and gave the Captain a brief demonstration of his skills. It left him perspiring and thirsty, so he poured more lemonade and sat again.

Captain Harrow seemed pleased. “You are thinking more, rather than just thrusting and parrying.”

“The thinking is the most important part,” Mycroft said primly.

“Keep up with lessons at school.”

“I intend to.” Mycroft lifted his glass and drained it. “For the thinking more than the swordplay.”

He pretended not to notice the appraising look the Captain gave him.

After Captain Harrow had departed [unfortunately with more words of advice as he went], Mycroft remained on the balcony, reading a newly published book, The British Constitution by Walter Bagehot. Father must have used some influence to get a copy so quickly, but he had put it to the top of Mycroft’s reading stack.

He barely noticed an hour later when Aadi brought the tea tray, setting it on the table before vanishing again, but he did look up when Ananda came onto the veranda and sat opposite him. She was wearing a gauzy gown, free and floating.

“Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.

Belatedly, he stood. “Of course I don’t mind,” he said, before sitting again.

She poured tea for them both and put a sandwich and a slice of cake onto a plate for him. “Your father is keeping you so busy with all of the reading that I have scarcely seen you.”

Mycroft toyed with the sandwich. It came as a surprise that she ever gave him that much thought.

“But I know he only wants you to be best prepared for school.”

He didn’t really want to talk about that, so instead he dropped another cube of sugar into his cup and stirred the tea.

“Are you pleased about the prospect of being a brother?” She asked the question lightly, most of her attention apparently on the cucumber sandwich she had selected from the tray.

Mycroft closed the book; apparently there was to be a conversation. “I do not know how well I will fulfil the obligations of the role,” he said carefully. “Especially at a distance.” Perhaps his words were slightly bitter, but that was unintentional. Mostly.

“It will complicate the relationship,” Ananda agreed. “But you mustn’t worry. I will be sure to let your sibling know how lucky he or she is to have Mycroft Holmes as a brother.”

Mycroft managed a small smile.

They were silent the, but it was not especially uncomfortable. After a moment, he opened his book again and began to read.

It seemed to be a day for unexpected encounters.

Mycroft was outside early in the evening, holding his binoculars, but not really doing any serious birdwatching. Mostly he was wondering if there would be any opportunity to keep up his birding journal at Eton.

“I seem to recall that there are a multitude of birds in the English countryside.”

He was so startled to hear his father’s voice that he almost dropped the binoculars.

“If you were wondering,” Father added.

“I was,” Mycroft replied. “Thank you.”

“Not that you will have very much time for your hobby, of course.”

Mycroft raised the binoculars and pretended to watch a common Rock Pigeon flying overhead. “I suppose there will be breaks for holidays and such.” He wondered what he would do when other students left the school to go home on such occasions, but he did not ask the question.

After a moment, Father turned around and walked back into the cottage.

*

3

The stranger was standing on the edge of the small back garden, apparently watching the house, but not seeming to notice Mycroft sitting by the window. After a few minutes, when the figure did not move, Mycroft reached for his binoculars so he could get a better look at the intruder. It was a young man, wearing a rather bedraggled white dhoti, a heavily embroidered kurta and a turban. And he was definitely looking at the house.

It was probably just someone seeking employment, Mycroft decided, although there was still a niggling doubt in his mind. He was trying to decide if he should simply return to his reading or instead go to tell someone about the intruder. Before he could make up his mind, he saw Aadi emerge from the house and gesture to the stranger. He approached slowly before they both turned and disappeared into the house.

Mycroft shrugged and returned to his chair and Rousseau’s Discourse on the Arts and Sciences, which he was reading more to further perfect his French than from any actual interest in the philosophy.

After a few more minutes, however, his curiosity got the better of him, so he closed the book and headed downstairs. He could hear soft voices coming from the parlour, so he politely knocked once on the door.

“Come in, Mycroft,” Ananda said, apparently knowing that it was him.

He opened the door and stepped inside. Ananda was sitting in her usual chair and the young man he’d seen was now standing by the window. For a moment, Mycroft just stood there awkwardly, wondering how to explain why he had come into the room.

Then the stranger spoke. “This boy was watching me from the window. No doubt he wanted to see if I were some nefarious creature.” The voice was soft, but still held a note of…disrespect? Or bitterness, perhaps. Mycroft could not be sure.

Ananda made a sound that was not quite a laugh. It was more like a slightly nervous giggle, which seemed out of character. “Mycroft, this is my brother Jaideep. And, Jaideep, this is my stepson Mycroft.”

They looked at one another across the room. Finally, Mycroft made an abbreviated bow, which Jaideep returned in a slightly mocking way. “I do apologise,” Mycroft said to Ananda. “For interrupting your family reunion. I shall return to my studies now.”

She only nodded and he left the room without another glance at Jaideep.

Mycroft [for what was possibly the first time in his life] rather wished that Father were home instead of at some meeting. There was something about Ananda’s brother that made him uneasy. His mind remained unsettled as he opened the book again.

He had not yet decided how he felt about Rousseau’s contention that civilisation itself corrupted human beings. It seemed to him a very Gallic sort of conclusion.

*

Mycroft went out into the garden before dinner, binoculars in hand, still determined to one day, before he left India, see an Indian Frogmouth. The rare bird, he knew, was really only habituated in the deep forest, but last year he had heard a rumour of one being spotted near Simla. Immediately, he had set the quixotic goal of seeing one for himself.

He took his usual place in the tree and began the search.

It was only a few minutes later that he saw Ananda’s brother leave the house and start to walk away, before he apparently became aware that Mycroft was amongst the branches. He stopped and stared upwards. “Are you a spy then?” he asked in a voice that was deceptively light-hearted given the look in his eyes.

Mycroft was quietly pleased that he could recognize the contradiction. “I am searching for an Indian Frogmouth,” he replied with dignity.

“Do you intend to steal it?”

Shocked, Mycroft almost dropped the binoculars as he stared at the man. “I intend to watch it and record it in my journal,” he said. “I am not a thief.”

Jaideep clapped his hands together slowly, mockingly. “How honoured I am to meet the only Englishman in my country who is not a thief.”

Mycroft decided that he did not care to converse with the fellow any longer, even if he were family of some sort. So he just raised the binoculars again and ignored him.

After a moment, Jaideep turned and walked away.

Mycroft moved the binoculars just enough so that he could watch the man’s journey down towards the town below.

Somehow, he knew that it would be better to say nothing of this to Father, although he was not sure why it felt like an act of loyalty to a woman to whom he owed none. Or perhaps it was some kind of political game that Mycroft wished he were better prepared for.

There were still things he had to learn.

*

4

The last six weeks had been very quiet, with few visitors save the doctor[happily not the same man who had tended Mummy, but a much more cheerful Scot] and one or two women with whom Ananda had formed something of a friendship. She spent almost all of her time confined to what had been the guest room but which now was reorganised and prepared for a birth and the days after.

Mycroft did what he assumed to be the proper thing by paying a short visit every afternoon just before tea. Said visits consisted of nothing more than him stepping into the room, enquiring after her health and biding her a pleasant evening. No doubt because it was also the proper thing to do, Father was spending more time at home than usual, although not always with his wife. But he was at least present.

Primarily, Mycroft kept up with his reading and his hunt for the Indian Frogmouth, which in his mind had become almost mythological. Like looking for a unicorn. The subject of Ananda’s brother and his visit was never brought up and after some days had passed Mycroft almost forgot all about it.

*

The day his brother was born dawned sunny and pleasantly cooler than might have been expected. Mycroft was still at breakfast when Aadi was sent to fetch both the doctor and the midwife, who was not the most usual lower-caste woman of little education, but instead, oddly, an American woman with fiery red hair and apparently all sort of progressive ideas. Mycroft knew that Father did not really approve of Miss Osborne, but, Ananda insisted and, as always, in the end he had capitulated.

When she arrived, just after the doctor, Miss Osborne gave Mycroft a friendly wave. “Ready to be a big brother?” she asked him cheerfully whilst passing.

“I suppose,” he said, glancing up from the Calcutta Chronicle which had just been delivered. “My duties will be limited, I believe.”

She laughed and disappeared towards the bedroom.

*

Mycroft finished both his breakfast and the Chronicle in peace. But then, as a few soft moans emerged from down the corridor, he chose discretion and headed outdoors. He perched in his tree and opened the Rousseau, which he had discarded for some weeks, but recently decided that he should probably finish reading.

He lost track of time completely, so had no idea how long it was before Father came out and walked over to the tree. Time enough, he realised, for his body to feel a bit stiff from sitting curled in the branches. He closed the book, tucked it under his arm and climbed down carefully.

Father looked quite cheerful. “You have a brother,” he announced.

Mycroft nodded. “Is your wife well?” he asked.

“She is.”

They stood in silence for a moment, before Father walked away.

It was several hours later when Miss Osborne joined him on the veranda. “Would you like to meet your brother?” She grinned broadly and Mycroft wondered if she were emblematic of her country’s citizenry. “He’s a real charmer.”

Mycroft considered that for a moment, then realised that her words were more of an invitation than a question. It would have been rude to refuse and he was rather curious anyway. “Very well,” he said.

The bedroom felt close and too warm, but Ananda was awake. Father was sitting in a chair a respectful distance from the bed. Mycroft gave them each a nod as Miss Osborne crossed to the cradle and bent to lift a well-swaddled bundle that seemed very small to Mycroft. “Come closer,” the midwife said. “So you can have a good look.”

Mycroft stepped over to where she stood and looked down.

It was not until that moment he realised one of the things that had been hovering in the back of his mind. What would this baby look like? More English or more native? At first glance, he took in the dark hair, rather too much of it for such a tiny creature and clearly from his mother. Not the muted ginger of either Father or himself. But the infant had pale skin and when his eyes opened under the scrutiny, Mycroft saw a grey-green colour.

For the first time, Ananda spoke. “Meet William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she said softly. “William, this is your brother Mycroft.”

It seemed as if the baby was taking the measure of this creature, his big brother, with his almost heart-shaped mouth pursed in scientific enquiry. Mycroft reached out one careful finger to brush the soft skin of his brother’s cheek. “Hello, William,” he whispered, feeling a sense of tenderness that had been missing from his life since Mummy died.

William made a sound and Mycroft smiled.

*

It was the next day before Mycroft took his courage in hand and approached Father, who was still in a cheerful mood. “I wanted to ask you something, sir,” he said.

“What, Mycroft?”

He took a deep breath. “I know that plans are in hand for me to leave here for Eton,” he said.

Father gave a nod.

“I wanted to know if perhaps that might delayed for a year so that I might get to know William. If I leave now, he will have no memory at all of me.”

Father stared at him for a long moment, then seemed to reach a decision. “You will not let your studies slack. And in one year, exactly, there will be no nonsense at all. You will go.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

Father opened the file on his desk. “You surprise me a bit, Mycroft. I had no idea that you were so sentimental,” he said, not sounding terribly pleased about that.

“Neither did I,” Mycroft responded.

He left the office.

**


	5. Leaving Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's journey begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks. A little late today [real life got in the way] but here is the next chapter. Hope you are still reading and enjoying. I love hearing from you, if you are so inclined. For those of you wondering, the chapter after this one brings us one John Hamish Watson.

Leaving home involves a kind of  
second birth, in which we give   
birth to ourselves.

-Robert Neely Bellah

1

Their return to Calcutta had been delayed for some time to be certain that both Ananda and William were strong enough for the journey. As the weeks went by, Mycroft spent more and more time with his brother, hoping that perhaps he could imprint some memories onto the baby’s brain, no matter how long it would be before they saw one another again. If they ever did.

On fine mornings, the ayah would carry the wicker basket with William tucked up inside out to the garden. Mycroft would sit on the ground next to him, sometimes reading aloud from whatever book he happened to be in the middle of. He thought that his brother was fond of science, especially chemistry. On other days, he would just talk about whatever was on his mind. Mycroft realised that none of what he said probably made any sense at all to the infant, but that really didn’t matter. And there were times when it seemed as if William was actually listening. Occasionally, he would frown, apparently displeased by Mycroft’s opinions on the issue of workers’ rights or universal suffrage. Other times, he would smile. Mycroft liked it when the infant’s lips turned up in delight.

When they were alone, he would secretly call his brother Sherlock, rather than William, which seemed a far too ordinary name for such a fascinating creature.

It was embarrassing to admit, even to himself, but Mycroft realised that he was entirely smitten with his little brother. There were times when he would muse about all of the things they could do when Sherlock was a little older, all the things he could teach him. But then he would remember that in a few short months he would be on a ship, steaming towards a world he had never known and in which he would be very much alone.

So the days passed and each week Mycroft read more and talked more and tried to believe that it could make a difference.

*

Apparently the fact that he had not the slightest interest in attending a party to mark his imminent departure from Calcutta, from India, from his birds and his little brother mattered not at all. Consequently, Mycroft found himself trapped in the parlour, wearing his best suit and pretending to eat the biscuit someone had pushed into his hand. Most of the people in the room were only vaguely familiar to him and so, quite reasonably, none of them seemed very interested in actually conversing with him. Which suited him very well, as it happened.

There were several young people in attendance; he might have seen them each half-a-dozen times in his life at one or another function in the capital. The fact that he could not find anything in common with them was a forceful realisation that he lacked any real ability to socialise with others. It was also a reminder that before long he would be at a school surrounded by strangers.

Finally, two of the guests made their way across the room to where he stood. One of them was a girl with close-set eyes and thin lips; she was accompanied by a boy who clearly took a great deal of pride in his flaxen hair, judging by how often he tossed his head to show it off. Mycroft vaguely remembered their names. Franklin Something and Emma Something.

“You lucky dog,” the boy said when they were standing next to him. “I shan’t be going to Winchester until next year.”

“Are you looking forward to it?” Mycroft asked him, genuinely curious.

“Of course I am,” Franklin replied. “Aren’t you weary of living surrounded by---“ He gestured towards Aadi, who was serving sherry to several chattering women nearby. “I will be delighted to be amongst my own kind.”

Emma slapped his arm. “Shush, don’t be rude.”

He just sneered and tossed his head yet again.

There were several things that Mycroft thought about saying, but he said none of them. Instead, he gazed around the room, his entire being rendered languid with boredom. “Actually, I will be at Eton,” he murmured at last.

“At least you two get to go off and have adventures. I asked my father to send me home for school, but he decided that Miss Palmer’s Academy for Young Englishwomen here will do for me,” Emma said, sounding disgruntled.

“What would you do with a proper education anyway?” Franklin said.

She giggled. “Oh, I’m not bothered about that, of course. I would just love to be in London. For the fashion and the society balls.”

For what was possibly the first time in his life, Mycroft was happy to see his father gesturing for him from across the room. “Excuse me,” he said, wondering if Franklin were emblematic of the boys he would be meeting at school. It seemed a grim prospect.

Father was standing with an elderly couple, both strangers to Mycroft. The man wore a clerical collar, which was never reassuring. “Mycroft, this is the Reverend Jeffries and his wife. They will be your chaperones when you sail for England. Reverend, my son, Mycroft.”

Politely, Mycroft shook the old man’s hand and inclined his head to the wife, saying all the proper words, whilst at the same time noticing that the reverend’s gaze was vague and his face slack. Mrs Jefferies looked to be a shrew, with lips that seemed permanently pursed in disapproval. The thought of spending weeks in their company was dismal, but Mycroft took some relief in the fact that these days the journey _would_ only take weeks rather than months, as it had when his parents came over..

He was only vaguely listening as the reverend and his wife droned on with details of their plans for the trip and managing not to rudely disagree when they assumed that he would be delighted to join them for their daily bible study. Fortunately, before his restraint was stretched too far, he looked across the room and saw a very familiar face. Politely, he excused himself again and made his way through the crowd of guests until he reached the over-stuffed chair tucked in the corner. “Hello, Nanny,” he said, a bit surprised at how happy he was to see the tiny elderly woman.

She smiled at him gently. “Hello, Mycroft. Goodness, haven’t you turned into a real young man.”

How was one meant to respond to that? Not knowing, he ignored the remark.

Nanny patted the arm of the chair and he sat down there.

“How are you doing? Is your new residence acceptable?” he asked, realising with some shame that he had never visited her there.

“I am contented,” she replied. “The food is plentiful and there is always someone ready for a game of Whist.”

“That’s good.” Mycroft knew that his mother had left money in her will to provide for Nanny. “I was surprised to see you here,” he admitted.

Nanny chuckled and leaned a bit closer to him. “I think the invitation was issued as an obligation and with no real expectation that I would accept.”

Mycroft grinned fleetingly.

Then Nanny straightened her shoulders. “I owed it to your dear mother to see you off, Mycroft. She never wanted you to be sent away, you know.”

He hadn’t known that, actually, but it was not relevant now, so he only shrugged.

“I understand that you have a new brother,” Nanny said then.

Mycroft could not help brightening at that. “Yes, I do. Would you like to meet him?”

“If you would like me to.”

He helped her up from the chair and continued to hold her arm as they made a slow journey though the house to the nursery. The ayah was folding linens, but when they walked in, she smiled a bit and excused herself from the room. The rattan cot stood in the corner, its billowing China silk white curtains fluttering in the warm breeze coming in through the window. Mycroft had expected that Sherlock might be sleeping, but instead the little boy was sitting up, chewing on a silver teething ring, apparently deep in thought.

He watched their approach thoughtfully.

Nanny clasped her hands together in clear delight. “Oh, so this is William. What a delightful little fellow.”

Mycroft put a hand into the cot and ruffled the dark curls. “I prefer to call him Sherlock,” he said softly. “Suits him better than William, I think.”

Nanny eyed him in a surprisingly sharp way. “You will miss him when you go off to England, won’t you?”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “He likes me, I think. But I expect that he will forget me before too long.” He glanced at Nanny. “Won’t he?”

She gave his cheek a pat just as she used to do. “The love will always be there, Mycroft.”

He was not so sure of that. England was very far away and Sherlock was very young. But in that moment, he almost let himself believe what Nanny was saying. He wanted to so very much.

Mycroft left his hand where it was, weaving his fingers through the softs hair as he listened to Nanny tell saccharine tales of his own babyhood, which seemed a very long time ago.

*  
2

The days remaining until his departure seemed to pass more quickly than time normally did, although rationally Mycroft knew that such was not the case. But there were fittings to be had for his tail coats, striped black trousers and black waistcoats. In addition, there were other necessary purchases to be made and the selecting of items that would go into the two large trunks being packed. Add in the deciding of which books he wanted to take with him and Mycroft was kept very busy indeed. He missed his lazy afternoons with Sherlock.

Almost at the end of the preparations, he carefully wrapped and packed two other items in the case that would stay with him though-out the voyage: the daguerreotype of his mother as a young woman and the silver urn that contained her ashes. The responsibility of carrying the ashes to England was not one he resented. Then, finally, he packed his journals and the binoculars.

Just as he finished, there was a soft tap at his door. “Come in,” he said.

The door opened and Ananda stepped in, a small brown paper wrapped parcel in her hand. “I have a gift for you,” she said.

Mycroft pushed himself up from the floor and she handed him the parcel. “Thank you,” he said, before carefully unwrapping it. Inside was a small watercolour painting of Sherlock sitting in the garden and smiling.

Ananda gave him a gentle pat on his arm. “So he can be with you always. And be assured that William will have the tintype for which you sat last week to look upon.”

Mycroft bit his lower lip almost hard enough to make it bleed. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper, as if telling her a secret of his heart. “I call him Sherlock,” he said. “I think it suits him.”

She smiled. “You might be right.”

After another moment, she turned and left the room.

When he was alone again, Mycroft carefully rewrapped the watercolour and tucked it into case with the portrait of his mother and the urn.

*

3

Too soon the day arrived.

Father had delayed going to the office so that he could accompany Mycroft to the ship. Surprisingly, he had acquiesced to Ananda coming along as well. On her lap Sherlock, in a grey-and-white-checked dress, kept up a lively babel on everything he was seeing.

Mycroft kept soothing the front of his waistcoat, trying to look as if he were not attempting to wipe the dampness from his palms. Sherlock reached out towards him and Mycroft let the baby grab his finger.

Father finished the letter that he had been reading, folded it carefully and placed it back into his pocket. “I have done all I can to prepare you for this, son,” he said then. “And I feel very confident that you will not disappoint me in my expectations.”

Mycroft was watching Sherlock gnaw on his finger.

Ananda patted her husband’s arm. “I am certain that Mycroft will always do his best, my dear.”

Father did not argue with that. “I do believe that the rigorous structure will profit you.”

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft said softly.

After that exchange, the inside of the carriage was silent, save for Sherlock’s babbling.

As they drew closer to the docks, Father spoke again. “This time next year, Calcutta will be an official port city,” he said. “By the time you return, things will be very different and you will be in a position the make the best of that progress.”

Mycroft realised then that he had given very little though to the idea of returning to India. How many years from now would that be? Not until he was through Eton and Cambridge, he was sure of that. Years. What would he be like at that point? What would Sherlock have grown into? In fact, it occurred to him that they might actually pass one another, two ships heading in opposite directions, as Mycroft made his way back to Calcutta and Sherlock set off on his own journey to Eton.

The baby grinned at him

In the end, it all went very quickly.

Ananda and Sherlock stayed in the carriage as Father ensured that Mycroft’s trunks were put aboard. Then he led the way up the gangplank, being greeted by the bearded captain before taking Mycroft to his tiny cabin. Which, as it happened, was right next to the one occupied by Reverend Jeffries and his wife. That worthy pair was just leaving their cabin to go back on deck for the departure. They reminded Mycroft about the bible studies and then departed.

Mycroft saw that his small trunk holding those things he would need on the voyage, as well as his most precious objects, was already sitting in the corner. Father made a cursory inspection of the room while standing in the doorway.

“I might go back on deck as well,” Mycroft suggested tentatively. It occurred at that moment, in a way that it had not really done before, that in only a few moments, he would be out from under the complete control of this man. Oh, there was no doubt that, as closely as one could manage from the other side of the world, he would still be the one in charge. Regular reports would be dispatched by the Headmaster on his progress.

But, still, day to day, some decisions would be made by Mycroft himself.

“Yes,” Father said. “Despite my suggestion that she remain in the carriage, I suspect that your stepmother is standing on the dock now and would no doubt like to see you wave.” At that moment, a bell sounded to indicate that departure was imminent. Father took a small leather purse from his pocket and handed it to Mycroft. “Do not be frivolous with these funds,” he admonished. “They must last until the end of Summer Half. Also in there are the particulars of my legal man in London, in the eventuality that there is some problem. Not that I believe there will be.” The final words sounded less like a statement of confidence in his son’s abilities and more of an order.

Mycroft tucked the purse into his pocket carefully.

It seemed that every passenger on board wanted to witness their departure from Calcutta. Mycroft spotted the Jefferies and moved to stand at a distance from them. Father held out a hand and Mycroft responded in kind. It was a brusque farewell, with no more words spoken and then Father joined a few others moving down the gangplank.

Mycroft leant on the railing and saw that Ananda, Sherlock in her arms, had indeed left the carriage and was standing with other spectators seeing off their loved ones. Or those they felt obligated to see off. A moment later, Father appeared beside them, pointing out where Mycroft was standing.

Ananda seemed to be trying to get Sherlock to wave, but he was clearly more interested in the large dog that was standing nearby. Mycroft removed the crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and, feeling rather foolish, waved it about a bit. Ananda returned the gesture with a pink handkerchief, whilst Father merely lifted one hand in a dignified manner befitting a man whom everyone acknowledged was rising to an ever higher position of power within Her Majesty’s government.

Finally, at the very last moment, Sherlock appeared to look directly at the ship, even at Mycroft, although that seemed very unlikely. The baby seemed to give what might be called a wave by a fond brother. Mycroft waved back with a little more enthusiasm.

The engine awoke all at once, like an ancient behemoth come back to life. Water at the stern was thrown into a whirlpool of boiling surges and then the ship began to creep slowly away from the jetty. The departure gun was fired and the many handkerchiefs and hats were waved even more enthusiastically from both land and water.

Mycroft lifted his hand once more to Sherlock, before Father began to shepherd Ananda and the baby back towards the carriage. It struck Mycroft that life had already returned to normal for them.

As the ship continued its slow progression, the passengers started to turn away and Mycroft thought that most of them were glad to see the end of the farewells. Now they could begin to think of themselves and whatever new life awaited after the travails of the voyage. On board, the crowd began to disperse, heading for various locations. Some went no further than one of the wooden chairs arrayed along the promenade deck to sit and watch the city disappear. Others were retreating to their quarters.

Mycroft was actually the last to leave the railing, wondering again as he watched Calcutta begin to slip away when or if he would ever return. When or if he would ever see his family again. Wondering what awaited him at Eton.

Finally, he left the deck and returned to his cabin, deciding to write a letter to Sherlock, knowing that it could be sent on when the ship made its first stop to refill the fresh water and food and to take on cargo.

*

4

Mycroft spent the first few days of the voyage making a study of the new society in which he had found himself. He carefully wrote his observations in the ever-present journal, just as he had done when watching the birds. There were a surprising number of similarities. 

As well, much like life in Calcutta or Simla, the shipboard community was clearly demarcated, at least when considering the crew. There, he could clearly see the strict divisions. The officers, of course, were all British. Some of the ordinary seamen were European; he had distinguished four different languages thus far. The most tedious and onerous jobs on the ship were performed by lascars, mainly Indians. Although the various nationalities seemed to work together in harmony, on those few occasions when Mycroft saw them pausing for a smoke or going to meals, there was no mingling between the groups.

Amongst the nearly two hundred passengers on-board there seemed to be more flexible social boundaries than might be found on land. An aging doyen of the colonial government might be tucked up in a deck chair and chatting amiably with a man who was clearly in trade, while his wife played whist with the widow of a Scottish vicar.

For the most part, Mycroft kept to his own company. Luck and more than a little strategic planning made it possible to mostly avoid the Reverend Jeffries and his good wife, although he compromised by joining them for breakfast every morning. He was still expected for bible study each afternoon and he had still managed to evade it completely.

He had, oddly enough, made the acquaintance of two young people about his own age. Roger was was on his way to Charterhouse School, travelling with his older brother and his new bride. Circumstances gave Roger a great deal of time on his own. Mycroft realised that the other boy was intelligent enough, but his interests seemed to centre solely on two subjects: horses and philately, either of which he was happy to talk about for hours. Mycroft struggled a bit to get a word in on the much more interesting subjects of birding or fencing.

He had also met Clarice, the daughter of a British officer. Her family was returning to England as her father was taking up a position at the War Office. She had a pleasant nature, a bit too eager to please, with a tendency towards simpering that grew annoying after a time.

The three of them met up most afternoons in a quiet corner of the Promenade Deck, where they would eat biscuits Clarice provided from her apparently endless supply and talk in lazy, aimless circles while mocking the other passengers.

Mycroft wondered if this was what it was like to have friends.

He was not certain how he felt about that.  
*

The storm had been brewing all day and it was the only real topic of conversation at breakfast. The dark clouds on the horizon and the increased wind set many nerves on edge, especially those of the ladies onboard. Tension was such that Captain Hopkins even made an appearance in the lounge to assure everyone that all would be well. He advised that when the storm hit it would be best if everyone avoided walking on deck as much as possible and kept to their cabins or gathered in the lounge.

Mycroft was not frightened of a storm, although he hoped that it would not bring on a bout of mal de mere, which he had so far escaped. Reverend Jeffries tapped on his cabin door to say that if he were uneasy they would welcome him to join them in prayer for salvation from the storm. Mycroft merely nodded and thanked him, already knowing that no matter how bad things became, he would never seek refuge with them. The thought of going into whatever lay beyond death in their company had no appeal at all.

The storm had still not arrived by luncheon, so Mycroft went to eat and then to find Clarice and Roger waiting in their usual spot, sitting down on the deck in an attempt to evade the growing wind. Roger had filched a couple of Navy Cuts from his brother and he offered one to Mycroft. Mostly out of curiosity, Mycroft took it and placed it awkwardly between his lips as he waited for the other boy to strike the Bryant and May match. His first inhalation left him coughing and gasping.

Roger laughed and blew a ring of smoke that floated towards Clarice, who waved it off irritably. “My mother says that cigarette smoking is a filthy, low-class habit,” she said leaning closer to Mycroft.

Roger cast her a scathing glance. “I expect that your mother would also think that kissing boys behind the lifeboat is filthy and low-class.”

Clarice blushed and ducked her head.

Mycroft, meanwhile, had almost managed to inhale a couple of times without choking. He watched the interplay between his two companions. Although he had absolutely no experience in such things, Mr Hall had instructed him in the ways a gentleman should always conduct himself. Now, he looked disapprovingly at Roger. “A gentleman should not speak like that to a lady, you know,” he said.

Roger laughed. “You are so very priggish, aren’t you, Holmes?”

Mycroft was now managing to inhale and exhale properly. “I just know the proper way to behave.”

“Nope, just a prig,” Roger said with a sneer.

Things might have become unpleasant, but just then Clarice gave a squeal, pointing at the sky. “Those clouds look horrid.”

Both boys raised their heads to look.

Indeed, the clouds above them were even more intimidating than they had been earlier. They were a black and grey tumult, roiling like a pot on the boil. The wind had increased in its intensity and they could see a few gulls being tumbled about like scraps of paper above the unforgiving waves.

Roger played at nonchalance, making out that he was only irritated by being unable to light another match. “Might as well go below,” he said quickly. “I have no desire to be caught in the rain.”

Clarice seemed to be on the brink of tears.

Mycroft sighed and took her arm. “I will accompany you back to your parents,” he said, hoping that Mr Hall would have been pleased to see him acting as a gentleman.

She clutched tightly on to him as they crossed the deck, heading for the stairs. The few other passengers still out and about were also ready to take shelter. The crew were hurried about in an urgent, but practised style. The ship heaved and tossed in a way that made walking difficult, but finally they were standing in front of the door of the cabin Clarice was sharing with her parents.

She smiled a bit…well, coyly was the only word that came to mind and edged closer. Closer than was appropriate, in truth. “You are much nicer than Roger,” she murmured.

Mycroft shifted slightly away. “You had best get inside. No doubt your mother is worried. And I must get to my own cabin.”

Before he could take a step, Clarice leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Maybe we could walk out together once this horrid storm is over.”

Mycroft stepped back quickly, one hand going to his cheek to wipe at the spot her moist lips had touched. “A lady does not behave in such an outgoing manner,” was all he could think to say. He turned quickly and walked in the direction of his own refuge.

“Roger was right,” Clarice called from behind him. “You are a prig.”

Then she giggled.  
*

The storm raged for twelve hours.

Mycroft spent most of that time curled up in his narrow bed, the daguerreotype of Mummy and the small watercolour of Sherlock by his side. He thought that if he were destined for the bottom of the ocean, he wanted not to be alone. Once, he chanced getting up to use the chamber pot and a sudden swell sent him crashing. His shin received a bad bruise and he crawled back to the bed.

Above the roar of the wind, he could faintly hear the Jeffries exhorting their God to spare them .

At one point during the height of the storm, he began to recite a story to Sherlock, just as he had done during all those lovely afternoons in the Simla garden. “This is the tale of the brave knight, Sir Sherlock, who set forth to save the kingdom from a great and dreadful dragon. This dragon poured fire and death wherever he roamed and even the king feared him. But Sir Sherlock took up his lance and shield and rode his loyal steed out to face the danger alone.”

As he talked, Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on the painting, trying not to wonder about what it would feel like to drown. At some point, he could feel the long-simmering resentment against his father spark and become more. He hated the man who had so cavalierly put his older son on this ship and sent him off to a strange land. Perhaps he was actually hoping that the ship and his inconvenient son would just vanish.

Somehow, despite the storm, Mycroft finally slept.

When he awoke early the next morning, it was to a much more peaceful world. He rolled out of bed quickly, wincing as his bruised shin objected. After a moment, he put his shoes on and donned his coat before walking through the quiet corridor and up the narrow staircase.

The sky above the promenade deck was a glittering blue. He saw that the gulls had survived and were now gliding elegantly overhead. It was still very early and so only a few crew members were about, cleaning the deck and doing other chores. No one paid him any mind as he made his way to the bow. Once there, he leant on the railing and contemplated the horizon. It was clear and bright, seeming to promise only the best for the future.

Mycroft, however, was not fooled. He could not remember what he had dreamt of the night before, but he found himself left with a sense of resolution. He was determined to make his own way in a world that seemed not to care much for one lonely boy. No one in India [save, perhaps, Nanny] would spare him a thought and despite all his hopes, it seemed certain that Sherlock would soon forget that he even had a brother.

As the salt-tinged breeze ruffled his hair, Mycroft Holmes straightened his shoulders. Life may have determined that he would be alone, but he could choose not to be lonely. He would not cater to sentimental thoughts or waste any more time on idiots like Clarice and Roger.

He could not bring to mind the name of the author at the moment, but he could remember a line about ‘the bliss of solitude’ and was now determined to make that the path he would follow in life. After a moment, he took his journal and a pencil from his pocket and wrote down the words.

The Bliss of Solitude.

A solitary man was a safe man.

Returning the journal safely to his pocket, Mycroft decided to go for breakfast now, so that he could be done before many others turned up. Then he would bring a book back out here and spend the day reading and learning.

As he made his way to the dining room, it came to him.

Wordsworth, he realised. That was the poet.

**


	6. Come And Take Him In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson appears and Mycroft carries on. And a little boy chases butterflies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks. I am so happy that you have decided to come along with me on the rather winding journey. I will say that time is going to start moving a little more quickly from this point. I always enjoy hearing your thoughts/feelings about what is happening to our favourite characters. Also, there is now a lovely cover to go with this tale and as soon as I can figure out the technicalities I will be sharing it!

Whoever it is that leaves him out so  
late, when other creatures have gone  
to stall and barn, ought to be told to  
come and take him in.

-Frost, Robert

1

John tried his best. He really did.

But both of the other boys were bigger than he and one of them had a cudgel. None of that kept John from fighting like a demon for his three pennies, of course. It had taken him all day to earn those precious coins; hours of picking up dog shite and then selling the bagful to one of the tanneries. The money was meant to buy some bread for his family.

Mam had scrounged up some tater scraps and even two carrot tops from somewhere and was planning to make soup, so she had told him to be sure to get a day-old loaf of bread to go with the broth. He had actually been on his way to see the baker, old DeFoy, at his shop just behind the pawn broker’s place when the attack came.

The feet and fists and cudgel used so effectively by the boys made bruises that John knew would hurt like the very devil by tomorrow morning, but he also knew that his father would do worse when he arrived home empty-handed. Unless he struck lucky and the old man had already passed out from the gin. His mam would not beat him, but instead only look at him with too-familiar disappointment on her pale, gaunt face. He sometimes thought that her constant disappointment was worse than the beatings, because he did try so very hard.

Harry would no doubt mock him as usual; just because he, at nine, was a year older than John, as well as a little bit taller, he liked to lord it over him. His bent and useless leg did not keep him from the taunting, but there was little retribution, as John did not think it right to hit a cripple.

When he was alone again in the alley, John used the sleeve of his filthy shirt to wipe the blood from his face, deciding that there was nothing for it except to go home.

On the journey, he stopped long enough over a dark grate to piss and empty his bowels, always taking any opportunity to avoid the earth-closet that served hundreds of people living around the courtyard in Southwark. A house that long ago had been respectable and perhaps even lovely was at the centre of the ugly and desperate neighbourhood. It was now ramshackle and surrounded by shabbily constructed dwellings that had probably started to fall apart the day after they were built.

The Watson family lived in one of those buildings, keeping two rooms, one above the other. John and Harry slept upstairs. Getting to their pallets was always a hazardous exercise, as the short staircase was in such bad repair. John sometimes feared falling through one of the flimsy steps and ending up in the basement where no one lived, because it was filled with the fetid refuse deposited there over many years. When he was not angry at his brother, it made him feel badly about how hard Harry had to work to get up and down to their room.

Once he arrived, John walked around the house to the sole standpipe that served all of the twenty buildings that squatted around the courtyard, so that he could wash off the worst of both the blood and the dog shite. His glove, as always, was the hardest to clean, but he rubbed and rinsed it until it smelt slightly less. He knew that his real intention was to delay as long as possible the moment when he had to walk into their rooms and confess that he had no bread.

After he had washed and before going into the building, John let his now-cleaner fingers touch the folded and hidden copy of the Evening Standard that he had found abandoned by the kerb. Luckily the thieves had not been interested in snatching that. John gave a scornful snort. Probably the arses couldn’t even read, he thought.

All day John had been looking forward to the moment when Harry would fall asleep and he could light the candle stub that he kept hidden under his pallet. The candle was a secret, just as the discarded newspapers he occasionally acquired were secret.

Of course, the biggest secret of all was the fact that he could actually read.

Last year, a gentleman fallen on hard times and known only as the Professor had taken up residence in what was a space the size of a wardrobe located next to the Watson family rooms. He had taken a fancy to John and would share a cup of weak tea with him occasionally. More importantly, the old man seemed to think that John ‘had promise’ and so they began the reading lessons whenever John could slip away. The lessons started with simple words written on a broken slate John had found in the ruble and then moved on to whichever of the dailies one of them had managed to find.

To his own surprise, John found reading both pleasurable and easy. After some months he had started to read an actual book that the Professor suddenly produced from a bag. “Dickens!” he proclaimed proudly.

“I’ve heard of him,” John replied, although he could not remember where or when the name had been mentioned.

The Professor handed him the battered volume. “A Christmas Carol. I think you will enjoy it.”

One word on the cover caught his attention. “There are ghosts?”

“Indeed there are.”

As the Professor had predicted, John did enjoy the story. Especially the ghosts, although they were a bit frightening late at night. Sadly, he was only halfway through the story when the bailiffs appeared one day and hauled the Professor off to the work house. John ran after them to return the book to the old man. He still wondered what had happened to Tiny Tim, who was also a cripple, but much nicer than Harry.

But the legacy of their friendship was that he could read and John would be forever grateful to the Professor for the gift of words. Now he kept his skill sharp by reading shop signs and posted bills, as well as the newspapers when he could get his hands on them.

Sometimes John wondered why he had kept the fact that he could read from his family. Instinct told him that they would be scornful, would accuse him of trying to get above his station. Mam had thrown that charge at him once before. He had found a three-penny on the road and, on a whim, used it to buy an almost new linen handkerchief from a market stall. It had the initials LBD embroidered in one corner and he found himself fantasizing about whom the handkerchief had belonged to and what his life was like.

His plan was to tie the piece of cloth around his mouth and nose as he collected dog shite, to help with the smell. But that very night, Mam found the handkerchief and laughed, saying did he fancy himself a toff? “Don’t get above your station, boy.” She took it from him and sold it to a neighbour for two pence.

He could never understand why getting above his station was a bad thing, Why would anyone not want to do that when _this_ place was their station? Could anyone really be contented to spend their life here?

John Watson could not be satisfied, he already knew that.

Finally, he could delay no longer and went inside. For once, luck was with him and his father was still out, so all he had to deal with was Mam’s sad looks and Harry’s taunts. He swallowed his share of the watery broth as quickly as he could and went upstairs, just to get away.

He was still awake when Harry made his clumsy way up the stairs and into the room, complaining under his breath about John’s failure to provide bread for the meal. John knew that his brother worked very hard as well, although he would be willing to change with him and spend _his_ days cutting felt for hats. Harry was the only boy in the factory and he was inside, sitting all day, safe from the weather and thugs who would steal his hard-earned pence. Still, he seemed to think that _he_ would rather be walking around London like John instead, forgetting the bit about collecting dog shite.

Harry went behind the tattered curtain to where his own pallet lay. John could hear him pissing into the pot and then dropping down with a thump. “Too bad you’re such a mewling quim,” he muttered, just loudly enough for John to hear.

John clenched his fists, wishing that he could punch something. Or someone. Instead, he only said, “I bring home more bread than you.”

There was no response and, just a few moments later, Harry began to snore.

When he was sure that Harry was deeply asleep, John reached under the pallet and took out his bit of candle, lighting it with one of his precious Lucifers. The light cast was meagre, but if he held the stub close and concentrated, he could read the words on the cheap newsprint. He only allowed himself one page a night.

On this night, he read a story about the gruesome find of a woman’s mutilated body found near Battersea, followed by the rather dreadful tale of prize cattle dying in a horrid fog at the Smithfield show. It was all very interesting and he regretted that the Professor was missing out. Finally, he carefully extinguished the flame between his spit-covered fingers, before hiding both the paper and the candle back under the pallet.

He settled down under the scrap of blanket and was asleep almost immediately.

*

2

Mycroft had never really understood or appreciated the freedoms that he had enjoyed in his life up until the moment he walked into his House at Eton. He had imagined that being on a different continent from his father would be at least a little liberating. But, as it turned out, he had merely traded one form of indenture for another. In many ways, it was worse. At least, with Father, once the orders had been issued Mycroft was mostly left alone to manage his day.

In this case, his life was tightly controlled by one Mr Hoyle, the Housemaster, whose apparent duty was to assure that the boys under his control never strayed from the path of industry and righteousness. Said path, of course, being the one determined by the establishment. Mycroft was no stranger to that, of course, since his father was very nearly the government in human form.

Other parts of his new life came as a surprise.

He had not expected to have a fag-master, for example.

Steele seemed a perfectly amiable chap and not naturally inclined to bully his fag unduly.

Technically, part of Mycroft’s duty was to cook breakfast and supper and serve it to Steele in his room. In practice, almost all of the boys in the house ate together in the hall. Other chores, like starting the fire in Steele’s room when wanted, keeping his boots well-polished and running errands took only a few days to master. Steele took his early clumsy mistakes with a cheery attitude.

His example made Mycroft wonder occasionally about his own history as it regarded the servants back home. He thought that he had always been respectful, if a bit distant. That was probably the best that could have been expected. Well, he could have learnt their names.

At least, given the way Steele had treated him, Mycroft behaved kindly towards his own fags when the time came that he was the one in charge.

For the most part, Mycroft was not particularly unhappy at Eton. The courses gave him no issues, as expected, and his marks were always high. The different houses were gathered around the college buildings in a pleasant way and his own room was fine and larger than he had expected it might be. It contained everything he needed: a folding bed, washstand and tub, fireplace. Both a tea table and a study table with a decent chair. Bookcases to hold all the books he’d brought from India and an ottoman that would seat a guest if necessary. Thus far, it had not been necessary.

On the wall hung the daguerreotype of Mummy and the watercolour of Sherlock.

Circumstances and a strict rule forbidding much contact between the various houses meant that Mycroft spent nearly all of his time in the company of those with whom he lived. Johnson, McCraig, Bellows, Moore. And the rest. He supposed they were no better or worse than any group of fellows. It had taken Mycroft some time to accustom himself to being around others so much. Often, the close contact seemed to chafe in an almost physical way. When it threatened to overwhelm him, he would seek refuge in his room.

Additionally, it was rather off-putting, the amount of time that everyone around him devoted to sport.

The games they played incessantly seemed to define all that was fine and good and manly. It did not matter what Mycroft said to Mr Hoyle about not wanting to participate, unless he could keep up with his fencing; clearly, the Housemaster could only be moved so far. The fencing was approved, but apparently some sort of team play was also required. Offered his choice of football, cricket or rowing, Mycroft finally signed on for the rowing squad.

His years fell into a pattern, governed by the terms. The days, too, had structure. Rising at 6:45 for breakfast, first school of the day, followed by chapel, which there was no escaping much to Mycroft’s chagrin. Then another school. During the morning interval, instead of taking refreshment at their respective Houses, many of the boys treated themselves at one of the sock shops.

Mycroft had gone along with the crowd a few times, but he found the crowded room and the constant chatter about recent matches or upcoming matches or whatever else, disruptive and boring. As a result, he usually just returned to the house for tea with bread and butter.

Most days, he was joined by only one other boy. Ironically, it was the boy he felt quite comfortable with, but the one with whom he spent the least amount of time, because Rashnamurti, like Mycroft, isolated himself by choice. He was the son of an Indian prince who had, according to gossip, bought his son’s place at Eton. Mycroft always wanted to point out that the same was true for all of them. Save the Collegers, who were all on scholarship and lived separately.

One morning, as they ate the bread and drank the tea, Rashnamurti asked him, “What do you miss the most?”

Mycroft considered the question. He wanted to say that he missed his brother, but that seemed too personal somehow. Too unmanly. Instead, he said, “My birdwatching.”

“Ahh...” Rashnamurti nodded. “I collect rocks,” he said.

Sometimes those quiet morning tea breaks were the best part of Mycroft’s day.

The rest of each day was filled with schools and tuition with division masters. Lock-up was followed by more tea and bread. Evenings were passed in the common room, where cuddling in front of the fireplace was a common occurrence.

Mycroft did not cuddle.

Instead, he sat alone in a corner of the room and read or sometimes wrote letters to Sherlock, although as months and then years went by he did not write as often as he thought a good brother should do. It made him feel guilty, especially whenever he received a carefully printed note from the little boy Sherlock had become.

Term breaks and holidays, he always spent at school in the company of other boys who lived too far away to go home. Occasionally, he felt a pang of what might have been homesickness, but whenever that happened he would remember standing in the bow of the ship on his voyage to England. He would remember that staying alone was the best and safest path.

A solitary man was a safe man.

But, still, he read Sherlock’s little notes and sometimes he replied.

*

3

It was always his first memory.

A fragrant, lush garden, the vivid azure sky, a light breeze that could only belong to India, to Simla. In the memory, Mummy was sitting on a colourful shawl spread on the grass. And there were butterflies. Always the butterflies.

Sherlock’s proudest possession at the time was his small net for catching colourful butterflies to add to his collection. He was determined this day on capturing a Great Windmill, but thus far all his running around and waving his net in the air had failed.

“Sherlock,” Mummy called softly. “You are very hot and breathless. Come sit with me and have some lemonade.”

He gave one last, futile swipe with his net and then came to drop down onto the shawl, prickling with the indignation that only a five-year-old could muster. “I want a Great Windmill,” he muttered, wiping at the sweat on his forehead with one hand and accepting the glass of lemonade with the other.

“And you shall have one, I am sure,” Mummy said. “But rest a bit first.”

These were Sherlock’s favourite kind of days, those when Mummy told the ayah to have a morning to herself and brought Sherlock into the garden instead. He selected a biscuit from the plate and took a thoughtful bite. “I have a spot saved in my collection just for the Great Windmill.”

She smiled at him. “Do you know the tale of how the butterflies came to be?” she asked him.

Sherlock’s brow crinkled as he thought. “No,” he finally admitted, albeit reluctantly. He always hated having to confess his ignorance about anything.

Mummy poured them each more lemonade. “Many, many years ago, Lord Brahma created the world and with it all the flowers, trees, fishes, animals and insects.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s whole face reflected his instant skepticism, but Mummy lifted a hand to stop him from speaking. “Yes, my dear one, it is a myth, but one you will like. Trust me.”

Well, of course he trusted Mummy, so Sherlock just nodded and nibbled another biscuit carefully.

“Now Lord Brahma loved all of his creations, but best of all he loved the plants and flowers of the earth. Which is why one day he was horrified to see that all of the plants he saw had been stripped of their leaves and blossoms. Very quickly, the culprit was clear.

“Were there clues?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

Mummy smiled. “I suppose there were. Anyway, the guilty one was a caterpillar, who admitted the deed immediately, saying that he had been so hungry and all the leaves and blossoms so delicious, he could not help himself.”

Sherlock’s biscuit-muffled grunt made clear exactly what he thought of that particular alibi.

“In his anger, Lord Brahma cursed the caterpillar, proclaiming that henceforth it would be as a stone. No legs, no mouth, nothing but a lifeless lump hanging from a branch. Very soon, however, the other animals took pity on the poor caterpillar and they went to visit Lord Brahma and begged him to show mercy. Lord Brahma’s heart was touched, so he changed the curse. The caterpillar would only have to spend a few days as the lump and then he could burst out and become—-“ Mummy paused and looked at Sherlock in expectation.

“A butterfly!” he shouted.

“Yes, my clever boy. A butterfly.”

Sherlock sighed in satisfaction. “You were right, Mummy. I like that myth very much.”

She reached into the basket and took out an envelope. “Look what was in the post. A letter from Mycroft.”

He frowned. “About time, too.,” he mumbled.

Mummy opened the envelope, which held only a single sheet. At Sherlock’s sniff, she said, “I am sure that your brother is very busy,” she said. “Shall I read it to you?”

Sometimes, Sherlock preferred to work out the words himself, but this time he just shrugged.

_Dear Sherlock, I hope you are well, brother. I was happy to get the drawings of your butterfly collection. What a good job you are doing. As for me, I have had no time to pursue my birdwatching now that I am heading for Cambridge. Must dash, as I have a final oral exam in ancient history. The lecturer is very particular about punctuality. Take care of yourself. Fondly, your brother, Mycroft.”_

Mummy looked up. “I told you he would enjoy your drawings.” She folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. “All ready to go into the box with the others.”

“Huh, hardly worth it,” Sherlock mumbled, but he took the letter from her anyway and tucked it into his pocket. Then he jumped to his feet and grabbed his net. “It’s a Grand Windmill,” he stage-whispered before dashing off.

The white-spotted black butterfly managed to evade two attempts at capture, but then Sherlock made one final, desperate lunge that ended with him flat on his stomach in the grass and the Great Windmill in the net. _That will impress Mycroft_ he thought immediately.

Then Sherlock turned his head and grinned at his mother.

**


	7. So Strong, So Certain, So Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock and Mycroft are all growing up. It is not easy for any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, all. I hope you are finding this study into the characters we love of interest. Sometimes I feel as if I am putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Or maybe painting a portrait. Whatever it is, I hope you are enjoying what is emerging. Love hearing from you.

A young man is so strong, so mad,  
so certain and so lost.

-Wolfe, T.

1

He was so proud of his uniform.

Every night, he brushed down the coat and polished the brass buttons until they gleamed. His job at the telegraph office meant that he was able to buy bread every day and maybe even a bit of beef occasionally. Mum would smile and pat his head when he came home with fresh bread and a small cut of meat.

Harry would always speak up, bragging about how he was now decorating hats rather than just cutting felt. John did not envy him that job, however. It meant spending twelve hours every day but Sunday, bent over the work table in a crowded room with dim lighting. In addition, Harry had to put up with the their father’s constant jibes about the kind of boy who spent his life ‘sticking fucking shiny bits and feathers on hats’.

The old man himself was most often too insensible with the gin to work many days in a week. Mam still went out to do laundry for several families, which helped a bit. All in all, things were somewhat better than they had been,

John was miserable.

Oh, he did not mind the job; in fact, he enjoyed being able to run all over London. Liked ringing the bells at the doors of grand houses in Mayfair and chatting with the young maids who sometimes opened those doors and who were clearly impressed by his uniform. They batted their eyes at him and giggled. Of course, he enjoyed the salary, small as it was and the occasional extra pence or two a stone-faced butler would sometimes give him. And he was not picking up dog shite all day.

So all of that was good.

But, of course, at the end of the day, he was still going back to that same falling-down hovel and climbing those same treacherous stairs up to his lumpy pallet. He could not help comparing that place with the glimpses inside the fine houses he saw while waiting to be handed any response to the telegrams he delivered. Not that he even dared to aspire to such luxury, but sometimes he also stood at the doors of much more modest homes. Small bungalows with simple fittings and paint that needed redoing. He had seen very quickly that telegrams sent to those places invariably meant bad news. 

But surely, if he worked hard, one day such a place might be his. He craved _more_ without really know what that even meant.

He knew very well what some of the boys did to earn extra coin, spending their evenings at a certain house in Knightsbridge, but John had no intention of going in that direction, even if he were not entirely sure exactly _what_ those boys did in that house. Still, sometimes, when his fellow telegraph boys showed off a new silk handkerchief or flashed their shillings, he felt a bit envious.

But he was determined to gain more dignity and respect, not less.

Sometimes the giggling housemaids he saw regularly would give him a day-old newspaper. He suspected that they probably thought the papers were being used to insulate a drafty room rather than being read eagerly every night. Harry knew his secret now, but he did not tell Mam about it. The only interest he ever showed was to sometimes look at the advertisements for ladies’ hats.

John’s restlessness often drove him away from their rooms, away from the drunken rages of the old man and Mam’s useless twittering, even when he was weary from running around the city all day. He had found a small park tucked behind a church not far from home and it became his usual place of refuge. That park and the bench upon which he spent many hours came to feel like his own.

Which was why, when he arrived at the park one warm summer night, it was quite startling to find someone else already sitting on the bench. He walked right up to confront the interloper. “Who are you?” John knew that his tone was rude, but it felt as if someone had invaded his private world.

It was a moment before the old man in the ragged trousers and filthy coat looked up from the study of his own gnarled hands and focussed his milky gaze on John. “I am Sergeant Henry Bowers, late of Her Majesty’s forces,” the man said in a gravelly voice. “And who might you be, then?”

“John Watson, sir.” John finally noticed that one of the trouser legs was empty and that a pair of crutches was propped next to the man. He sat down on the other end of the bench.”Where did you do your soldiering?” he asked after a moment.

“Off in the farthest corner of the Empire, boy. India.”

“Is that where...” John gestured towards the empty trouser leg.

“Yep. At the siege of Lucknow. Six months in hell, it were.”

John tried to think if he had ever heard of that siege, but then he just shook his head.

Bowers gave him a smile. “Oh, before you was even born, lad. Back in ‘57, it were.”

John suddenly realised that Bowers was not really as aged as he’d first thought; the creases and lines in his face were not really from being old, but from something else. Just life, probably. Like Mam, who looked like a woman much older than she was. “What happened?” he asked eagerly. Then he thought that might have been a bit rude, so he added, “If you don’t mind talking about it, of course.”

Bowers gave a rough chuckle. “Most old soldiers is just waiting for someone to ask.” One of his hands moved to rest on the crutches, fingers slowly rubbing at the wood. 

The action seemed to be something of a comfort to him. John remembered suddenly the only real toy he had ever had, a small wooden soldier painted in faded red and blue. Mam had found it on the pavement one day and brought it home for him. He named the soldier William. When his father was in one of his rages, John would curl up in the wardrobe and hold onto the toy.

William had vanished when the family was evicted from the flat and moved into the rooms where they still lived. John felt a bit silly when he realised that he missed William.

Bowers finally spoke again. “Our commanding officer was Sir Henry Lawrence and a fine man he was. When the damned rebels attacked, he moved all of us, including the native troops, and the civilians into the government house. It were right in the middle of Lucknow. A smart move.” Bowers bent his head and sighed. “Sir Lawrence perished early in the siege. Same time I took the bullet in me leg. It was his spirit that kept us going, though.”

John was silent, entranced by the tale.

After a moment, Bowers continued his recollections. “We had battery positions set up, but the rebels had got into the buildings around us, so they could pick us off at will. The first relief column couldn’t lift the siege.” He patted the empty trouser leg. “I got a bad infection and the doc had to cut the leg off to save me life.”

John could not tell if Bowers thought that was a good decision or not.

“Finally, Sir Colin Campbell arrived and our half-year of hell was over.” The man paused again, staring into the darkness. “No mercy was shown to the rebels. Which seemed right and proper at the time. But sometimes now I wonder...”

John wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he had another question to ask. “Did you get a medal? One time, I saw a drawing in the newspaper of a soldier getting a medal right from the Queen.”

Instead of replying, Bowers reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handkerchief-wrapped bundle. He handed it to John.

Carefully, John pulled the grimy cloth away and revealed the brass cross with its faded ribbon. It looked just like the one he had seen in the drawing. He touched the cross lightly with a fingertip. “You’re a hero.”

Bowers laughed softly, but not as if he thought anything was actually funny, so John didn’t quite understand the laugh. He wrapped the medal again and handed it back to the man who carefully tucked it away safely.

“I would like to be a hero one day,” John said thoughtfully, wiping his nose on the back of one hand.

“You seem an able lad, so you might be,” Bowers said. “But for now, maybe you should be getting home. It’s late.”

John shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Then he sighed and stood. “But I have work tomorrow.” His shoulders straightened. “I’m a telegraph boy, you see.”

“Good on you, John. Important job that. Good training.” Bowers lifted his hand in a salute.

John crisply returned the gesture and walked toward the exit of the small park. When he reached the gate, he paused and turned around to look back.,

Bowers was still sitting on the bench.

By the time John was stretched out on his pallet, he had decided that when he was old enough he would take the Queen’s shilling and go be a hero.

2

The summer had been an odd one.

Usually, when they were in Simla, life moved at a slower pace, as if all real problems had been left behind in Calcutta. And sometimes it still seemed that way. Father went to work. There were cricket matches and polo matches. And drinks on the veranda. Some days it all seemed so ordinary.

But Sherlock sensed that there was something else going on, some stress line that he could not decipher. Mummy sometimes had a small frown on her face and seemed too vigilant about who came to the cottage. Sherlock kept up his butterfly collection and watched carefully.

He was almost happy when the summer ended.

Now they were back home in Calcutta and life seemed to have returned to normal. Which meant, of course, that Father was once again focussed on Sherlock and his education. Or rather what he saw as a serious lack of that particular activity.

Dinner was usually the only time the family was gathered in the same place at the same time and Father was never one to let an opportunity slip by without making the most of it. He remained unhappy that there was no tutor in residence for Sherlock. Mummy had prevailed in the argument, saying that she was happy to guide his education until it was time for him to go away to school.

Father had agreed, but as time went on, he came to regret that. He was of the opinion that Sherlock was lazy and not progressing sufficiently. “Do you want to be seen as an idiot when you get to Eton?” he asked rhetorically.

Sherlock considered saying that he did not want to go to Eton at all, but, for once, he let discretion guide him and said nothing.

“Would you like to know how far your brother had progressed by the time he was your age?” Father said, cutting into his lamb efficiently.

Sherlock continued to spread butter on his bread. “Oh, let me guess. No doubt he was reading Greek and Latin fluently, solving impossible geometric puzzles and about to take on Gibbon and the Roman Empire,” he muttered. “And probably performing amazing acts of prestidigitation in his leisure time.”

Mummy shook her head at him. “My dear, Sherlock is doing very well in his Latin and Greek. And he reads widely.”

Father ignored that, still glaring at Sherlock. “I suppose you believe yourself to be clever,”

“I am clever.” The words were nearly whispered into the plate, but then he looked up and smiled brightly. “Not nearly as clever as Mycroft, of course.”

The remainder of the meal passed in a chilly silence. When it was finally finished, Father went into his study for a cigar and brandy whilst he read the latest communiques from London.

Sherlock slouched into the sitting room and sprawled inelegantly on the divan. There was a small pile of books on the side-table. He ignored the volumes that Father had put there and instead pulled out The Mystery of Edwin Drood. He was fairly certain that he had solved the case and was eager to see if his solution was correct.

Before he’d gotten very far along in his reading, however, Mummy came into the room, carrying what looked like an instrument case in one hand. She sat down in the chair next to him. “I’ve had an idea,” she said, once he had closed the book and given her his attention.

“What idea?”

She opened the case and removed a gleaming violin, holding it out for his inspection.

Sherlock immediately reached out for the instrument, almost without knowing that he was doing so. Once he was holding it, his fingers caressing the smooth wood, he felt an unexpected sense of calm.

“Would you like to have lessons?” Mummy asked after a moment.

“I would,” he said softly. Then he looked at her. “Will Father allow it?”

“Of course he will. A gentleman is skilled in many things. You already have your fencing and this will be another accomplishment. He will be pleased.”

Sherlock was still a bit skeptical about that, but decided that perhaps Mummy was right. His fingers were still gliding along the violin. “Does Mycroft play?”

Mummy shook her head. She leant closer and teasingly whispered, “Your brother tried out the piano, but apparently it did not suit him.”

Sherlock pulled the violin close to his chest. “This will suit me,” he said. “Very much.”

Mr Hecht came the next day for his first lesson.

*

3

It was during one of Mycroft’s tutorials with the Philosophy lecturer that he realised the absolute truth of something he had always suspected: that almost all of the people around him were idiots. That confirmation brought him no pleasure, of course. Who wanted to live surrounded by goldfish?

He found little use in the study of Aesthetics. Beauty and Art. Was there a point to it at all? Although he could concede that there was some interest in the notion of personal truths. Whose truth should he trust, if not his own?

When the tutorial ended [finally], Mycroft gathered his notes and books and decided to walk into the Cambridge town centre. He had a letter to post to Sherlock, although he felt a bit guilty over its brevity. Sometimes it seemed as if he were penning messages to a stranger or simply into the nether. The brief responses that he received in return seemed to prove that Sherlock, too, had moved on from his childish efforts to remain connected. For the best, really.

Despite that, he did post the letter and then headed to Bowes and Bowes to find a particular book on the Magna Carta.

The girl was in the shop again. She seemed to buy a lot of books and Mycroft found himself wondering if she were actually reading them herself or if perhaps they were for a father or brother. He realised that his stepmother would frown at him for making such a supposition.

As usual, she gave him a smile as they passed one another in the aisle. “Good afternoon,” she said in a soft voice.

Mycroft ducked his head. He thought she was quite pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes and improbably pert, pink lips. Noticing those things, however, did not mean that he was interested in pursuing the girl. There was no room in his life for Romance. Not if he meant to do important and great things. No doubt she was only being polite anyway.

Some of the chaps talked about finding a wife one day, although for many of them it seemed to be more of a financial or political decision, rather than out of any great passion. Of course, Mycroft did not put much faith in passion either, as it seemed a very transient emotion. Sometimes he thought of Mummy as she had appeared in that portrait of a young woman embarking on a great adventure in a new, strange land and compared that person to the pale wraith he recalled from her last years.

Romance had not proved lucky for her, had it?

Sometimes, when he looked at the two portraits above his desk, it felt as if Sherlock were as far beyond his reach as his dead mother.

All he did now was to return the girl’s greeting, which earned him a glare from her frequent companion, a plump woman with steel grey hair and sharp eyes who waited by the door.

Once Mycroft had the book he wanted in hand, he paid at the till and left the shop, nodding cheekily to the gorgon as he went. It was a warm afternoon, so he decided to venture to Bene’t Street and have an ale at the Eagle.

There were always a lot of students in the pub, more people than Mycroft really liked being in close company with, but he could usually find a small table in the back of the room where he could sit with his book and enjoy a single pint of ale in peace.

Which was exactly what he was doing when, suddenly, his haven was disrupted. Two young men, one of whom looked vaguely familiar, had dragged chairs over to his table and appeared intent upon joining him. When he did not say anything, they both sat anyway, uninvited.

“Holmes, isn’t it?” the vaguely familiar one said.

Mycroft nodded and then remembered the face and, after a moment, the name. “Mulberry,” he said in greeting. The dark-haired young man was a couple of years older than Mycroft and had graduated with a few honours during Mycroft’s second term. As far as he could recall, they had not spoken more than a dozen words in the past.

“This is a chum of mine, Charles Day,” Mulberry said cheerfully.

They nodded at one another. “Why don’t I get us each another pint?” Day said.

“I only ever have one,” Mycroft said too softly. At any rate, Day was already heading for the bar.

It was not until Day had returned and three fresh pints were placed on the table that Mulberry spoke again. “Day, old man, this is Mycroft Holmes.”

Day lifted his glass in a mock salute. “Oh, the very clever one you have been telling me about.”

“Just so.”

Mycroft had no idea how one was meant to respond to that, but in his experience, people rarely paid compliments without some purpose. He took a slow sip of his ale.

This was a bit interesting.

“What do you want?” he asked bluntly.

Instead of taking offence at the tone, however, Mulberry just grinned at him

**


	8. Young Men At Anguish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things happen, sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome. As one might assume from the title, this is a rough chapter. Our boys are going through some tough times, but they will all survive and continue to evolve into the men we know and love. Please don’t forget that your comments are important.

I hear convulsive sobs from young  
men at anguish with themselves.

-Whitman, W.

1

John very often volunteered to work the overnight duty shift.

His motives for that were mixed. Firstly, running hither and yon through London all night was far better than staying at home. The old man’s drinking was worse than ever and nothing felt safe about being in their rooms. Mam had given up and just tried to avoid the worst of the blows. Harry sometimes fought back, but all that got him was more bruises. And maybe John was a coward for staying away, but in part that was because he was afraid of what he might do if pushed too far.

But, almost as important as all of that, was the fact that he especially loved being out in the city at night. He felt that any telegram sent in those dark hours had to be especially important or the sender would wait until the morning, both to avoid disturbing the recipient’s household and to pay a lower fee for the service. John liked the rush of excitement that came after he’d rung the bell at one big home or another, whilst he waited for a flickering light to appear, listening to the muffled sound of footsteps coming closer.

Sometimes the door would be opened by a sleepy-eyed boot-boy or a housemaid in a quickly donned dressing gown. Often John thought that he could recognise that the garment was a cast-off from the lady of the house, as it was usually ill-fitting.

Other times , a butler would open the door and John wondered if men in that position slept fully clothed, as they always seemed completely and appropriately dressed. And the haughty attitude apparently went on with the cravat and jacket. John always stood a bit taller at moments like that, happy to know that his brass buttons gleamed and his hair was tidy.

He usually had to wait in order to carry any reply back to the office and sometimes he could hear the sounds of reaction to the message he’d delivered. An angry shout. A burst of tears. Once someone threw or dropped something glass that shattered upon impact. Finally, the butler or whomever would return with the reply or sometimes just a coin and send him on his way.

Maybe there would be time for a cup of over-steeped tea at the telegraph office before he would be off again, to a new door. John found it all very interesting.

It was at the end of one such night at work that John walked slowly home, musing over the mystery of a particular telegram he had delivered earlier in the evening. The address was in one of the smartest areas of Kensington and the house itself was a shining example of wealth and taste. John did not know much about such things, but he had spent the last couple of years learning London by heart and he could tell quality when he saw it.

He had handed the the telegram to an especially fusty old butler, who shuffled away as quickly as his aged legs could carry him. But he had forgotten to close the door, so John had a nice view of what happened inside. Before the old man was halfway up the stairs, another man, this one much younger, appeared, coming down. He was wearing a heavily quilted red silk dressing gown, his feet were bare, and his dark hair was a tumbled mess. John thought he looked like a man who had adventures.

Without a word, he grabbed the telegram from the butler and read the words quickly. “The damned fool made it,” he said; the words were harsh, but the tone was fond. Then he ran down the rest of the stairs, followed much more slowly by the butler. Tolliver [for that had been name on the telegram] stopped in front of a small console table, took a sheet of paper and a pen from the drawer, and scribbled a quick message. He opened the drawer again and removed a few coins.

“Here you go, lad,” he said cheerfully.”For the return message and a bit for yourself. Be double-quick.”

John saluted him and took off. Double-quick.

An important message, an urgent reply, and a mysterious man in a red dressing gown. John thought that he could make a story out of it, like the ones he read in the papers.

By the end of the night, he was still thinking about it. In fact, he was so deep in thought that it took him a few moments to realise that something was very wrong in the road approaching the courtyard. The air was filled with rank black smoke. Someone was screaming, men in blue serge tunics and trousers were manipulating thick black hoses that spouted water at the flames. Flames that were shooting from the building where John lived. Had lived, because there was little left of the building.

He pushed his way around two huge white horses harnessed to one of the fire-fighting wagons, towards a group of neighbours huddled on the pavement. “Have you seen my family?” he asked one man, who was clutching a child wrapped in a tattered quilt.

The man blinked at him, then a savage look came onto his face. “Your damned father caused this!” he snarled. “Drunken bastard knocked over the oil lamp,”

John simply stood there for a moment, not knowing what else to do or say. He saw the vicar from the nearby church approaching.

“You are John Watson?” he asked.

John only nodded in response.

The vicar had a practised sad look on his round face.”Sadly, John, your parents could not be saved. The flames were too fierce for anyone to enter.”

He just nodded again.

“One of your neighbours told me that your brother had been badly burned trying to escape. A cart took him to hospital.”

John felt as if he should say _something_ , so he searched desperately for words. But none came. After another moment, the vicar walked away and John just stayed where he was, watching as what remained of the building collapsed.

*

2

Over the months, it had become something of a pattern.

Mycroft would never go so far as to say that he at all looked forward to the weekly meetings in the Eagle with Mulberry and Day, but he was comfortable with the routine. He always had appreciated routine.

It was not as if the meetings were ever scheduled as such. But every Tuesday, after his final tutorial of the day, Mycroft would make his way to the pub, often stopping at Bowes and Bowes first, to see what new books might be in, and take his usual table at the Eagle. Before long Mulberry and Day would appear. They would collect their drinks and come to sit with Mycroft.

The conversation was wide-ranging and often trivial, but Mycroft always had the feeling that something else was hovering just below the surface. It amused him to think that all those years spent watching Father manoeuvre through the corridors of politics and power were now serving him well. If he were a good son, he would write to the man and thank him for the education.

He had no intention of doing so.

One day near the end of his final term, Mycroft arrived in his rooms to find a note awaiting him. It was from Mulberry, inviting him to join Day and himself for dinner that evening at their club.

Mycroft read the note once more, then thought about what it might mean.

Finally, he dropped the invitation onto his desk and began to change into a proper suit. He had intended to write several letters this evening, including one to Sherlock, but this invitation seemed as if it might prove more interesting. And more important.

*

The club was tucked into a cul-de-sac not far from the town centre and Mycroft arrived exactly on time, as was his habit. A wizened elderly gentleman greeted him at the door and silently lead him through a dimly-lit and thickly carpeted corridor, not going into the dining room they passed, but, instead, opening the door to a small side room. He gestured for Mycroft to enter.

He stepped in and the door closed behind him. A table for three was set in the middle of the room, where Mulberry and Day were already seated, a bottle of wine between them. Three glasses had already poured. Mulberry jumped to his feet. “Holmes, old boy, glad you could come. Have a seat.”

The room was cosy, with wood-lined walls, fairly decent artwork and a cheerful fire roaring away. Mycroft thought that one day he would like to belong to such a club. If there existed one in which actual socialisation could be kept to a bare minimum. He sat and they each took a sip of the wine. Mycroft nodded approvingly.

“The kitchen here turns out a rather nice meal,” Mulberry said lazily. “I hope you are fond of trout.”

“I am, as it happens.”

The meal lived up to expectations, from the starter of creamy asparagus soup, through the aforementioned trout with roasted potatoes and sprouts, to a delightful concoction of fruit and meringues for pudding. Conversation through-out the meal was light, centred mostly around Cambridge gossip and, oddly, sport. Mycroft was amused to realise that none of them had any interest at all in what was being said. The words were merely a sort of dance to fill the time until the real agenda for the evening was revealed.

It was not until the port had been poured and the cheese platter served that Mulberry and Day exchanged a look that seemed full of significance. Mycroft finished a piece of cheddar, swallowed some port and sat back expectantly.

Mulberry took the lead. “You are finishing soon at university, I believe.”

Mycroft nodded. He was actually finishing his degree almost a year early, which was something he had not told Father, for reasons he was not entirely sure of.

“Have you plans for afterwards?”

“Not as such,” Mycroft replied carefully. The only hint he had given about any plans had been in one of his increasingly rare letters to Sherlock, when he told the boy that he was looking forward to seeing him when his time at Cambridge was finished. Sherlock had replied with a list of things he had planned for them to do when they reunited.

Day topped up the port in his own glass, but Mycroft declined any more with a shake of his head. “What do you know of Francis Walsingham?” Day asked then.

Mycroft blinked at the unexpected question. “Secretary of State for Queen Elizabeth. Ardent, some might say blood-thirsty, anti-papist.”

“And some called him Elizabeth’s spymaster,” Day pointed out.

Mycroft conceded that with a shrug.

“You are clever, Holmes, and the Empire is in sore need of clever men.” Mulberry unnecessarily checked the door, which was firmly closed. “Walsingham made espionage a fine art. But there has been a sad lack of such activity in many years. Or, at least, of a satisfactory level of espionage.” He looked to Day, who took up the conversation.

“We are working with a small group of men, both in and out of the government, who want to see England match and exceed what countries on the continent and elsewhere are doing in espionage. Our eventual goal is to create the most efficient and greatest spy organisation in the world. Mulberry here thinks that you would be an excellent addition to our plans.”

With some amusement, Mycroft thought back to his second fencing instructor, Monsieur Benoit, whom gossip always said was a spy, but something of a rogue destined for a bad end. Mycroft had no idea what had ever become of him. And then he remembered what Mr Hall had said about his future. Power behind the scenes. He felt his lips twitch in a small smile. After another moment, he realised that the other two men were watching him expectantly. “What exactly are you proposing?” he asked, hoping his voice was steady.

Mulberry leant over the table towards him. “To begin, we would obtain a position for you in a government department, something lowly to start, no doubt, but which would place you close to the heart of things. As well as whatever duties that position entailed, you would also receive...shall we call it data from both here and abroad. Your responsibility would be to analyse that data and pass along your conclusions.” Mulberry flicked a smile at him. “We have been watching you for nearly two years and are confident that you will be very useful.”

Mycroft frowned a bit, not sure how he felt about the news that he had been the target of observation for so long. It was not actually the observation that bothered him, but the fact that he had been unaware of it for so long. Had all the lessons his birdwatching had taught him been for naught?

Despite a quiet stirring of excitement, Mycroft thought it best to portray a certain thoughtful coolness. He took a moment to swallow the last of his port before replying. “This will require some thought on my part,” he said carefully.

“Of course,” Mulberry assured him. “We would expect no less.”

Day gave a short laugh. “Impulsiveness would be counter-productive to what we are looking for.”

Mulberry eyed him. “I have no doubt that your father will press for your return to India. Are you prepared to resist his demands?”

Mycroft also had no doubt that they knew precisely who Father was and the power he wielded. “Actually, he is unaware that I am finishing early,” he said. “In any event, I feel very little obligation to him or his demands.”

Both Mulberry and Day looked pleased at that.

Mulberry insisted on a final toast, whisky this time. After that, Mycroft took his leave.

*

By the time he had reached his rooms, Mycroft knew that he would accept the offer that had been made. It felt like a momentous decision, but he was remarkably calm about it, because, in the end, he felt that there was no other path for him. If not this, what?

After he had shed his clothes and donned a nightshirt and dressing gown, Mycroft sat at his desk to finish an essay on the political implications of the execution of Charles the First that his tutor expected to receive the next day.

But instead of picking up his pen, he leant back in his chair and just looked at the watercolour of Sherlock for a long moment. Then he fished out the letter in which his brother had made a careful list of everything he wanted them to do when Mycroft returned. He had already replied to the letter, with vague promises. Now, he reread the list.

Finally, he crumpled the letter and threw it into the fire. There had been too much time, too much distance between his half-brother and himself. The real world had intruded and whilst that perhaps was a melancholy truth, it was a truth that he had to accept.

Anything else was simply sentiment.

Despite all of that, however, he did not take the portrait of Sherlock from the wall.

*

3

Sherlock finished his lessons quickly and then waited as Mummy checked his geometry solutions, reviewed his translation of Cicero and admired his sketches of the Common Jezebel butterfly dancing about the garden. “These are lovely, Sherlock,” she said. “You have a gift for observing the world around you.”

Finally Sherlock played his latest piece for her, Presto From the Sonata No. 1 by Bach.

As the last notes faded, Mummy glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Oh, my goodness, look at the time. I need to get myself ready to meet your father for dinner at the Viceroy’s home.”

Sherlock stayed in the parlour, reading his collection of Edgar Allan Poe stories.

He had always enjoyed it when, as a small boy, he could watch Mummy primp for an evening out. She always made such an effort and now that he was older, he understood why. His habit of listening to conversations that were not intended for his ears always told him a great deal and a couple of years ago, he had heard his parents talking as they prepared to attend a ball.

_”Will the usual brigade of corsets and bile be there this evening?”_

_“Corsets and Bile? Ananda, my dear, where do you come up with such things?”_

_“You know exactly to which ladies I am referring.”_

_“Petty wives of insignificant officials. The important wives accept you.”_

_“Because of your position.”_

_“Then you shouldn’t fuss.”_

Sherlock knew that his mother would be the most beautiful lady at the dinner party and he wished that she would not fret.

She stepped into the room in a pale green gown. There was delicate embroidery along the hem that just touched the floor and lace around the neckline. Mummy’s hair was pulled up into a high bun, accented with a pick satin ribbon. She wore a discreet pearl necklace and on her bodice was a brooch, a perfect diamond surrounded by four emeralds. The brooch was a piece inherited from her mother, Sherlock knew.

“Well,” she said, giving a twirl. “What do you think?”

Sherlock studied her for a moment. “You look very pretty.”

The maid announced that the carriage was waiting. Mummy swept up her small beaded handbag and ivory silk shawl, before placing a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Goodnight, my lovely boy,” she said before vanishing from the room.

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen in search of some tea and maybe a biscuit or two. Cook had developed a fondness for him after he’d told her that the items missing from her larder had been taken by the new gardener’s wayward son. She had been very impressed and so, in return, was delighted to cater to his sweet tooth.

He carried the tea and biscuits to his bedroom so that he could continue reading Boswell’s biography of Dr Johnson.

At some point, he fell asleep with the volume still open on his lap.

Sherlock had no idea how long he had been asleep when he heard his father arrive home. The door was slammed shut and the sound of angry words floated into the bedroom. Before he could decide what to do, his father opened the door. “William, where is your mother?”

Still half-asleep, Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes. “She left to meet you, of course,” he said. “For dinner at the Viceroy’s.”

His father stood there for a long moment without speaking. Then, quietly now, he said. “She never turned up.”

They stared at one another in silence.

*

No one seemed to remember that he was there.

Some time ago, Cook had brought him a cup of milky, heavily sugared tea, along with some bread and butter. Sherlock ate the bread and drank the tea without actually tasting any of it, just because he was afraid that she might tell Father that he was going to be ill if he did not eat.

She was a silly woman, he thought. Kind, yes, but foolish to believe that Father cared a whit whether Sherlock ate some bread and butter or he did not.

But if she did speak to Father about it, that would only serve to remind him that Sherlock was present, curled up in a wicker chair in a shadowed corner of the room. Mummy’s favourite shawl, the peacock blue one with the yellow fringe, had been draped over the back of the chair and he had wrapped himself in it, although the room was not even a teeny bit chilly.

Still, the flimsy piece of cloth warmed him.

The room was crowded.

Several grim-faced policemen. Men from Father’s office. One or two women he recognised only because they came to tea or to play Whist with Mummy. Father was drinking whisky as he talked to the inspector. Every so often the buzz of noise in the room would still and Sherlock could hear the conversation between the two men.

“...and was your wife behaving quite normally over the past few days, Sir?” The inspector’s voice was gravelly and Sherlock decided that he must smoke a lot.

“Yes, of course she was,” Father replied irritably.

Sherlock cast his mind back over the last couple of days. Had anything been different at all?  
The day before they had picnicked in the garden and he had done battle with several butterflies. Mummy had listened to him read aloud from a scholarly book on the history of piracy, after which they discussed whether or not he ought to pursue becoming a pirate himself.

_”When you were very young that was your goal,” Mummy said. “I thought you had outgrown it by now.”_

_Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “Those were childish dreams based on a desire to wave a cutlass about and perhaps have a parrot. Of course I have outgrown that. But now I have a genuine interest in the subject.”  
“I think that the art of piracy has mostly died out.”_

_Sherlock was stalking a red and blue butterfly that he could not immediately identify, so his response was absent-minded. “Nonsense,” he said. “It has merely changed with the times. I would be a great pirate.”_

_“I’m sure you would, my darling boy,” Mummy said, forgetting that Sherlock rather frowned at those terms of endearment these days. “But I would miss you very much if you were always off sailing the seven seas in search of treasure.”_

_He swiped the net carefully, but the swift creature dodged capture and flew away. Sherlock scowled and walked over to join his mother. His legs were too long for the blanket now and they stretched out onto the grass. “You could come with me,” he suggested, picking up a biscuit._

_“And then your father would miss me.”_

_Sherlock concentrated on chewing for a moment. “Would he?” was all he finally said._

_Mummy only smiled._

Yes, Sherlock decided. Everything had been quite ordinary.

Despite the warmth in the room and the shawl wrapped around his shoulders, Sherlock realised that he was shivering at the sudden understanding that nothing was going to be ordinary ever again if Mummy did not come back.

He looked up and saw that his father was staring at him.

“Would someone get that boy to bed,” Father barked. “Now, William.”

**


	9. Or Else I Shall Be Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are still rough, be there are glimpses of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all still hanging it. I know it has been tough, but things will start looking up a bit in the chapter after this, especially for John. As always, I would love to have your thoughts!

Father! Father!  
Where are you going?  
O, do not walk so fast.  
Speak, Father, speak to  
your little boy.  
Or else I shall be lost.

-Blake, W.

1

John stopped at the entrance of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and stared up at the statue of Henry VIII. He had walked past the marble image so many times over the last month that it had become almost reassuring to see the stern face every morning. He could imagine that, if asked, old Henry would have given him some wise advice. The problem was, John _couldn’t_ imagine what his question should be.

Finally, he sighed and carried on in through the doorway.

As tired as he was from a long night running telegrams to a dozen different addresses, it was a good thing that his feet could deliver him to the proper ward without any thought. He had made the same walk daily since the fire and in the beginning the journey had been made with some hope, no matter how fragile it might have been. Now, however, he was beginning to understand why the sisters always looked at him with such sad smiles.

Harry could not talk to him during these daily visits; he had not, in fact, woken up even once since the night he’d been pulled from the fire. He had inhaled so much smoke, that was the thing, according to what Dr Franklin said.

John was very much impressed by the tall, spare man with steely grey hair and piercing blue eyes. Such a busy man and so important, but he always had a moment to speak with John and he was always so kind with Harry, so gentle. The hospital was a noisy, crowded place and sometimes there was not a lot of kindness or gentleness about. Dr Franklin was a reliable presence and John appreciated him.

Before going into the ward, John stopped to straighten his shoulders and take a deep breath. He always came here in his uniform because it might make people respect him a bit, not simply write him off as just another charity case. Maybe if he looked like a good, reliable lad, they would take extra care with Harry. It was something he could do.

He was still haunted by the dreadful events on the night of the fire, at least as he imagined things must have happened. Harry would have been upstairs in their bedroom, sleeping soundly when their mam screamed. That would have awakened him and then he could no doubt smell the smoke and hear the crackle of the flames. Harry would have wanted to run, of course; he was always an annoying twit, but not stupid. So he would have grabbed his crutches and tried to go down the rickety stairs. Apparently, he somehow made it to the door, because that was where the unknown man found him, unconscious. He dragged Harry out and saw that he was not breathing, so the man put breath into his mouth.

John knew that it was a fine thing to save a life. But at the same time, a part of him wondered if maybe in this case it might have been a better thing just to let Harry go. And then he felt guilty about having those thoughts.

He was ready to push open the door to the ward when he saw Dr Franklin standing by the window at the end of the corridor. He was smoking a cigar and exhaling out of the open window. When the doctor noticed John watching him, he waved him over.

“Hello, sir,” John said, tugging at his uniform jacket.

“How goes the telegraph trade?” Franklin asked.

“Fine, sir, thank you.”

Franklin nodded towards the book he could see tucked into John’s pocket. “And are you enjoying young Alice’s many adventures in wonderland?”

John patted the book. “Oh, yes. It’s a grand story. Thank you again for the book. I have been reading it aloud to Harry.”

The doctor smiled faintly. “You’re a good lad, John.” He turned back to the window, inhaling deeply and then expelling the smoke out into the city. “Actually, I am glad to have caught you, John. I wanted to talk to you about your brother before you visit him today.”

John twisted one of his brass buttons and sighed. “Harry’s not going to get better, is he?”

Franklin shook his head. “No, I’m afraid that he isn’t. The damage to his lungs was too great.”

“Poor Harry,” John said softly. “We never really got on, but he is my brother. The last of my family.” He stared at the floor for a moment. “He was very fond of decorating ladies’ hats, you know.”

“I didn’t know that.”

There was a pause. John knew that when Harry passed, it would mean another pauper’s grave, just as it had with his parents, but there was nothing he could do about it except feel sad. At least he could mourn, that was something.

There was another moment of silence. Then John cleared his throat. “Sir, is it hard to become a doctor?”

Franklin gave him a long, thoughtful look before replying. “It takes a great deal of work. Years of study. Have you ambitions in that direction?”

John smiled sheepishly. “I know that it is foolish for someone like me. My mam always warned me not to get above my station.”

Franklin finished the cigar and tossed the end out the window. “I will not lie and tell you that it would be easy, lad. But I think you are a fine, strong boy who is more capable that most.”

“Thank you, sir,” John said. “I had best go see Harry now.”

Franklin only nodded.

John stood at the bedside and told Harry about how his night had gone, especially about delivering a telegram to an actual Lord of the Realm. The man was big and red-faced, but he did give him twice the usual coins to keep for himself. There was no way of knowing if Harry heard a word, but the man in the next bed, whose leg was wrapped in a bandage coated in plaster of paris, listened avidly.

Finally, John patted Harry’s hand and said goodbye. He needed to get back to the telegraph office, where the manager was letting him kip on a pallet in the supply cupboard. He would read some more about Alice, until his eyes started drifting closed and then sleep until it was time to go back on duty.

*

It was no surprise when, two days later, the ward sister stopped him in the corridor and told him that Harry had passed away in the night. John accepted her words of sympathy, as well as a gentle pat on his arm, with a nod. He thanked her and walked out of the hospital.

Outside, he stopped to say goodbye to King Henry. He almost wanted to thank him as well, but instead he just patted the wall beneath the statue and left.

*

2

The job was exactly as tedious as he had expected it would be.

Mycroft was just one of the many harried clerks toiling away in the office of the Foreign Secretary. Most of his time was spent laboriously copying endless dry documents or running various errands for the Secretary. Primarily, Mycroft just kept his head down and allowed everyone around him to believe that he was no more clever than the rest of the drones.

But in reality, of course, he was much more clever.

He understood that one ought not disregard the value of gossip. Father had always called it ‘the chittering of fools’ but he never failed to pay attention to it and now neither did Mycroft. Although he was a bit irritated that, once again, he was more like the old man than he had ever wanted to be.

Many of the clerks he worked beside were no more than automatons, copying the words put in front of them in their best hand and not really reading what they were transcribing. Mycroft, however, read every word and remembered every fact. Whenever he was dispatched to fetch a file from the vast cabinet, he always took quick, but careful, note of the files abutting it. When the opportunity arose, he even riffled through the box holding papers that the Secretary wanted disposed of, before following the order to burn the lot.

And when Mycroft returned to his dreary boarding house, which accommodated several other lowly clerks as well, he would sit at the small, rather shaky desk in his room and write down every thing he had learned that day. As his confidence grew, he began to include addenda containing his thoughts on what it all might mean. 

It was an advantage [probably the only one] of sharing quarters with other clerks that they tended to chatter over breakfast and dinner, sometimes indiscreetly.

Every Friday evening, he took dinner with Day or Mulberry, sometimes both, usually at their London club. They seemed pleased with his progress and so he swallowed his complaints about how tediously dull it all was. In any event, he was not planning to hold the clerk’s position for an extended time. He was certainly headed for something better very soon.

On this particular Friday night, Mycroft had arrived early for their dinner, so he took a copy of The Times from the rack and began to read the news, quietly bemused by the fact that what the public was being told about the government bore very little relationship to what was actually going on.

It was the headline on a small story amidst the international news section that caught his eye.

_MISSING WIFE MYSTERY ROILS CALCUTTA_

_The wife of Mr William Holmes, high-ranking official in the colonial government, has vanished in a case that has greatly disturbed the British community in India. Ananda Holmes, daughter of a former British envoy and a native woman, disappeared after leaving home to join her husband at a social function. The marriage stirred some controversy when it occurred, but the couple seemed content, according to local reports. They have one young son. Authorities will only comment that the investigation is ongoing._

He finished rereading the story just as Day and Mulberry came into the room. Mulberry took one look at his face and seemed to know immediately what he had seen in the paper. “Bloody shame,” he said, after pouring three whiskies. “Are you fond of the woman?”

Mycroft shrugged. “She is fine.” He paused, before honesty forced him to go a bit further. “She was always kind to me.” He thought of the watercolour that now hung above his desk in the boarding house, along with the portrait of his mother. Hanging them both had seemed a natural thing to do when he moved in, although he resisted the thought that the images made the room less lonely.

Day was studying him. “Will your father want you to return to India now?”

“Why would he?” The question was sincere. After a moment, Mycroft shrugged again. “He believes me to still be engaged on my honours course and would not want to interrupt that. At any rate, he has another son.”

That seemed an end to the conversation.

The dinner was as excellent as always and once they had finished, save for some port, Mycroft took a few papers from his attaché case and began to talk about the rather curious conversation he had overheard between the Deputy Foreign Secretary and a small man with a heavy German accent.

Day and Mulberry seemed pleased.

Very soon, Mycroft thought, he would begin to push for his move to something more interesting and important.

*

It was a fortnight later when he received a letter from Sherlock. The handwriting was overly tidy, rather than the usual impatient scrawl his brother produced, so clearly he had made an effort.

_Dear Mycroft,  
I do not know if you have heard about my mother. She has gone missing and I fear the worst. Father is quite upset. I think he would be glad if you came home now, because I am not a very good son. He seems to forget that I am here, which is actually fine, but I am sure that he would pay attention to you. I would be glad of your homecoming as well._

_You have not written to me in some time, so maybe I am not a good brother either. I could do better, I think, if you were here._

_Your brother,  
Sherlock_

Mycroft carefully folded the letter and returned it to the envelope, deliberately not looking at the wall above his desk.

It was some time later before he took a clean sheet of stationery and began to write. He was not entirely sure if the fact that the words did not come easily said something good about his character or was a sign of weakness.

He did not let himself think about it for very long.

*

3

Sherlock was not hiding on purpose.

He just appreciated the quiet and shadowed refuge that could be found between the large bookcase and the leather settee that was only rarely used. It was a good place to sit, all curled up with his knees pressed to his chest and think. Or sometimes not to think.

It was a bit surprising when the door to the room opened and Father came in. Sherlock had assumed that the man was at Government House, as of late he was spending more time there than ever. It was a situation that suited Sherlock.

Now, he shrank back into the shadows.

The second surprise was that Father was not alone.

By tilting his head just slightly, Sherlock could see the other person who had entered. He did not, however, recognise him. The stranger was a tall, heavily-built, but not fat man, wearing a white linen suit. In one hand, he held a straw boater and in the other, a rather battered-looking attaché case.

“Sit down, Mr Goodwin,” Father said, gesturing towards one of the armchairs. He himself sat at his desk. “I must admit to a certain...hesitancy in contacting you.”

“People often feel that way,” Goodwin replied. “But you have read my letters of introduction.”

“Your previous clients do speak well of you,” Father admitted with obvious reluctance. “Still, it strikes me as a bit...unseemly. Particularly for a man in my position.”

“But you are desperate,” Goodwin pointed out, sounding smug.

Sherlock was impressed. It was not often that anyone could out-smug Father.

“One would have to be desperate to employ a...” Father paused for a moment, fingering a small card. “—-Confidential Investigator, I imagine.”

Goodwin gave a small shrug.

Father leaned forward over the desk, staring at Goodwin. “Can you find my wife?”

“If anyone can. And I do not say that to be arrogant. I am very good at what I do.”

Sherlock let his mind wander a bit, thinking about the words ‘Confidential Investigator’. It reminded him of the stories he had read about C. Auguste Dupin, the detective created by an American writer named Edgar Allan Poe. He enjoyed the stories but never imagined that there were real people like Dupin. And now there was one sitting just feet from him.

It was rather exciting, he thought.

He didn’t think that Mummy would be angry at him for being excited. She always liked the fact that he was curious about things.

Since Father had recently used the words ‘bumbling idiots’ to describe the police who had made no progress in their hunt for Mummy, it made sense that he would turn to someone else.

By the time Sherlock stopped wondering about it, Father and Goodwin had apparently finished their business and were saying their farewells. When Father was alone, he went to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky. Carrying the drink, he left the room.

After a few more minutes, Sherlock crawled out of his hiding place and wandered back to his bedroom, his mind still on the scene he had just witnessed. But once there, he immediately saw the mail waiting on his desk. The letter was from London, which meant that it had to be from Mycroft. He ripped it open, eager to see when his brother would be arriving.

_My dear brother,_

_I have been deeply saddened by the news of your mother’s mysterious disappearance. Believe me when I say that I understand how you must be feeling. I would like nothing better than to be with you at this difficult time._

_Sadly, that is not possible, as my studies and other things keep me tied to London at the moment. So I can only say that I am certain you are a brave lad and that you will face up to whatever turns out to be the truth. I do fervently hope that your Mother, whom I remember so fondly, will be found safe and well._

_You are in my thoughts, Sherlock._

_Your loving brother,  
Mycroft_

Sherlock read the letter through twice, thinking that perhaps he had misunderstood the words upon the first reading. But it was very clear. Mycroft would not be coming home.

After a moment, he reached under the bed and pulled out the enameled box that held all the letters Mycroft had written to him over the years. He added the new letter and closed the box again.

*

Later that night, when the house was dark and silent, Sherlock took the box out to the most hidden corner of the garden and started a small fire. Once the flames were established, he fed the many letters in, one by one, watching the edges curl and brown before each envelope was engulfed by fire. When the box was empty, he set it onto the dirt and used his shoe to smash it into pieces. Finally the pieces went into the fire as well.

When nothing remained but a pile of ashes, he kicked at it, scattering the evidence until there was nothing left. 

Nothing left.

The lesson learned was that it did no good to ask for help, because no one would be there for him. To believe otherwise and then be let down, as his brother had done to him, only left a sense of hollowness in his chest.

He never wanted to feel that pain again.

**


	10. The Mystery of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s life takes a turn for the better! Mycroft realises that he really does not care for legwork. And Sherlock Holmes has his first case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after all the angst, maybe it is time for some good things to happen. And for the future to take shape for all of our heroes.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy these events. Let me know.

The mystery of life is not a problem  
to be solved, but a reality to be lived.

-Herbert, F.

1

Of all the beautiful things that surrounded him every day, John had decided that his second favourite was the wood, with its dark, rich, almost blood-red colour and the smooth, silky feel it had beneath his fingers. To his delight, it was now his job to keep all the wood in this very large house in perfect condition. He very much enjoyed the task, not least because it was something to be done alone, away from the two young housemaids, [Ruth, upstairs and Ethel, downstairs] both of whom seemed determined to flutter their eyelashes and giggle far too much whenever they encountered him. At least when they were not in sight of the butler, Mr Whittaker or the housekeeper, Mrs Hope.

Another benefit of the taking care of the wood was that he was able to escape the stern gaze of Mr Whittaker, for whom nothing was ever quite completely correct, despite John’s best efforts.

All in all, he felt as if it were a treat, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning when he was left alone with the bottle of Mrs Hope’s special mixture of linseed oil, turpentine, vinegar and something called spirits of wine to use on what felt like miles of wood. His instructions were precise and he followed them to the letter every time. Shake the bottle well, rub the mixture onto the wood with a piece of fine linen and, finally, polish it off with a clean duster.

Sometimes as he worked, John would let his mind wander, musing on just how he, of all people, had come to be living in this castle-like house in Northampton, so far from the filth and noise of London. It all still sometimes felt like a dream and had done so since his ride in the growler that brought him from the train station up the long tree-lined drive to Ashburn Hall, the ancestral home of the Whitcomb family.

He would never forget the evening he returned to the telegraph office only to find Reverend Burke, the vicar from the church near John’s former home, waiting for him. First had come the expected remarks about the death of Harry months earlier, not forgetting to remind John that his brother was in a better place now, reunited with their parents and at peace.

John was vaguely tempted to remind the man that there had never been much peace within the Watson household and also that it was a very big leap to feature his father amongst the angels. If angels even existed.

But then he remembered something his former neighbour, the Professor, the man who taught him to read, had once said. _Manners maketh the man._ So John just smiled and nodded politely, hoping that this unexpected visit would soon be over, as he had already missed two chances at making a delivery.

It was then that the vicar told him about Sir Malcolm Whitcomb, apparently a close acquaintance of the bishop, who was in need of an able young man to work at his country house. “Just general chores, perhaps boot-cleaning, running errands, heavy-lifting for the housemaids, that sort of thing.” Burke beamed at him. “I thought to recommend you, John, if that would suit.”

John gave it a moment’s thought, wondering if this would turn out to be the most important moment of his life. And if the decision he made now would be for the better or for the worse. But then he found himself speaking. “Yes, sir, it would suit me very nicely, please.”

He had no idea where the courage had come from to make that decision. To leave behind the only place he knew. Perhaps, as his mother had always said, he was once again trying to raise himself about his station.

*

Always when he was polishing all that woodwork, John saved his favourite room, the thing he loved most about this house, for last. To walk into the library and see row upon row of leather-bound books made all the pettiness he dealt with every day seem unimportant. That he could be in the presence of what felt like all of the knowledge in the world brought him an unfamiliar sense of contentment. Sometimes he even dared to think that what he felt might be called happiness.

The library was at the very end of a long corridor, beyond the dining room and the other public areas of the house, so to him it felt like a different planet. For the first few weeks, intimidated by the grandeur, all John did was polish the woodwork, look at the fine bindings and inhale the scent of all those books.

Finally, one day while a thunderstorm raged outside and the fire beneath the stone mantelpiece burned brightly, he reached out and let his fingers [carefully wiped on the front of his trousers first, to remove any trace of oil] dance lightly across the spines of a dozen books. When his hand paused, he leant forward to read the title. _The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire_ by someone named Gibbon.

Just the title made John aware of how little he knew about the world.

Abruptly, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside the room and yanked his hand back.

Over the next few weeks, he learned to move as quickly as he could with the polishing of the wood in the rest of the house [whilst not shirking at all, because he did not want the chore passed on to someone else] so that he could spend as much time as possible in the library, touching the books and reading titles that seemed to promise so much. The first book he ever actually removed from a shelf was that same one by Gibbon and for several weeks he read through much of it.

There was a lot he did not understand, but John persisted.

He found that Dr Johnson’s dictionary was very useful.

Then one day John discovered the shelves filled with science books and he was completely enthralled.

_Mr Babbage’s Invention: Application of Machinery to the Purpose of Calculating and Printing Mathematical Tables_

_An Enquiry into the Causes and Effects of the Variolae_ by Edward Jenner

As before, much of what he read was beyond his understanding, but the dictionary again proved useful. One dark winter afternoon, he pulled from the shelf _On the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Animals_ by William Harvey and it was as if a whole new world opened up. It made him think of visiting Harry in hospital and seeing the physicians at their work. And he recalled his conversations with Doctor Franklin.

He remembered the dream that he himself might one day rise to such a state, foolish as those thoughts were.

It was two months later when John found _Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical_ by Henry Gray and it instantly became the favourite of all the books he’d read. He never tired of going through its pages.

That fascination would prove to be dangerous.

He was lost in a close examination of the human skull portrayed on one of the exquisitely engraved illustrations, when some faint sound or perhaps a shift in the air made it sickeningly obvious that he was no longer alone in the library. His first thought was that one of those giggling housemaids had discovered his secret and immediately his mind went to work trying to work out how she might be persuaded not to tattle on him.

John carefully closed the heavy volume and replaced it on the shelf before turning to look towards the door.

It was neither Ruth nor Ethel who had entered.

It wasn’t even Mr Whittaker, which would have been bad enough.

John’s stomach lurched as he took in the sight of Sir Malcolm himself standing there. The man never visited the library at this time of the day, so John had always felt comfortable taking the time to read. That habit was undoubtedly now going to lead to his ruin, landing him back in the smoke and filth of London.

It took all of his courage not to simply burst into tears.

Instead, he just stood there and clasped his hands behind his back, awaiting the pronouncement of his doom.

Sir Malcolm just looked at him for a moment, before saying, “You can read?”

At first, John only nodded. But then he realised that it would be more proper to speak. “Yes, sir,” he said. “A kind neighbour taught me when I was young. Since then, I have kept up the practice.” His brow furrowed. “I wanted to improve.” How unlucky that his desire to better himself was now going to be the end of this life he had made.

“What were you reading just now?”

“Mr Gray’s book on anatomy, sir.”

Sir Malcolm did not seem angry. “Have you an interest in such things?”

John could hardly believe that he was having this conversation with Sir Malcolm. They had scarcely passed more than three dozen words in the two years that John had been here and most of those on Boxing Day, when he received his annual gift. “I find it fascinating.” He should have kept quiet then, but his mouth moved on its own. “I used to think about being a physician, sir, although I know that was a foolish dream for someone like me.”

After a moment, the man moved to sit in the leather chair in front of the fireplace. “And do you understand what you are reading?”

“Most of it. I find Mr Johnson’s dictionary to be useful. Sir.”

“Remind me of your name.”

“John Watson, sir.”

There was a pause as Sir Malcolm studied him. “Have you learned about the skeletal structure of humans, John?”

“Some, yes.”

“Tell me.”

John thought for a moment. “The long bones are found in the limbs, where they form a system of levers.”

Sir Malcolm appeared to listen carefully, as John talked for at least five minutes, then just looked at him for a long moment. “How is your handwriting? Clear and legible?”

That was something else John had spent his spare moments at the telegraph office improving. “Yes, sir. Cook sometimes has me write out the lists for the green grocer and butcher.”

“You might know that Mr Eakins, my secretary, has recently departed for a position in France.”

John remembered the thin, whispery young man who had seemed to slip away with no fuss at all, with hardly any notice being paid. “Yes, sir.”

“His replacement will not arrive for a fortnight and I have considerable correspondence to manage. Would you like to fill the post temporarily?”  
John was stunned into silence for a moment. Then he glanced at the cleaning supplies on the floor.

“I will arrange for the release from your other chores. You may begin tomorrow. Be about your business now, John.”

As quickly and quietly as he could, John gathered up his supplies and headed back to the housekeeper’s cupboard.

*

From somewhere, Mrs Hope had procured a white shirt and collar that were a reasonable fit. His Sunday suit, inherited from a departed under-footman, was threadbare, but needs must, Mrs Hope said. After she finished fussing over him, John sat down to eat his breakfast before reporting for his first day as Sir Malcolm’s secretary. His stomach was tied in knots, though, so all he could manage was some tea and toast.

The housemaids, the gardener’s helper and the under-groom all stared at him as if he were some strange creature that they did not know. Mr Whittaker gave him a brief lecture on how to comport himself. “And,” the butler finished, “do not put on airs and think yourself high and mighty.”

Finally, it was time to present himself.

*

John knew that he had always been ambitious and once he was over the shock of Sir Malcolm’s offer, he determined to do the best that he could. Every letter he wrote was without an ink blot and if there were any words he was unsure of, he turned to his old friend, Mr Johnson. When Sir Malcolm asked him to research some bit of information from the library, he made sure to give a comprehensive report. The desk was kept tidy and Sir Malcolm’s calendar was kept up to date. There were scant words of praise, but neither were there any reprimands. 

Best of all, he had permission to read whatever he wanted from the library when his work was done.

On the day before the new secretary was due to arrive, Sir Malcolm summoned John to sit in front of him. He seemed to collect his thoughts before speaking. “I had a ward some years ago,” he began in a voice that was softer than usual. “A bright lad of whom we were very fond. It was his hope to seek a career in medicine, perhaps as a surgeon. Sadly, he was stricken with typhoid just before his sixteenth birthday and succumbed.”

John had no idea where this was going.

Sir Malcolm continued. “You are also a bright lad and it seems to me that you ought to have a chance. I am willing to provide aid, but the outcome is entirely down to you, John.”

“What are you saying, sir?”

“I will fund you for one year at Randolph College, the local day school. I have no doubt that you have the capacity to succeed there. You will still have some chores here, of course, in return for your room and board. If at the end of one year, you can pass the exams, I will find you a place to study medicine. You will be on a strict budget and expected to maintain the highest standards, both academically and morally.” Now, Sir Malcolm fixed him with a hard stare. “What do you say, John Watson?”

John felt as if the room were spinning around him, so it was a moment before he could respond. “I say that I will do my very best, sir,” he said, his spine as straight as he could make it.

Then, amazingly, Sir Malcolm held out his hand. John stuck his own out as well and they shook.

*

2

It was a very bad idea from the off.

Mycroft still never knew what to expect from his weekly dinner with Mulberry and Day. Sometimes the conversation was merely the idle chitter-chatter of the sort found in the less respectable newspapers. Mycroft always suspected that the other two men were as bored by these conversations as was he himself. Still, they all played the game.

On other evenings, Mulberry had pored over Mycroft’s carefully written reports of what was going on in the Home Office. With each of the promotions that had come Mycroft’s way, their interest in what he had to say increased. And now that he had left the Home Office to become the assistant to the confidential secretary for the Foreign Minister, his reports were even more significant.

Despite Mulberry and Day’s apparent approval of the work he was doing, Mycroft was beginning to chafe just a bit at being considered something like an assistant to _them._ He wanted to do more. And then the opportunity came along.

It was over the port that Day leaned forward and fixed Mycroft with an intense stare. “We have an assignment for you, Holmes,” he said.

Mycroft took another sip of the Gordon tawny port, letting it sit in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. The last time Day had spoken those words, Mycroft had ended up spending the night locked within a small hidden room near the Prime Minister’s office. It had been uncomfortable and, he was not ashamed to admit [at least to himself] a bit unsettling. Perhaps frightening.

But he had emerged the next morning with his carefully written copy of the memorandum and no one had been the wiser. Luckily so, because had he been caught, there might have been the suspicion that he was spying _on_ the government rather than for it. There was a thin line, sometimes.

Still, if he wanted to progress, he had to take a few chances.

*

And so it was that two nights later, Mycroft Holmes found himself loitering in a dark, malodorous alley in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, wrapped tightly in his black overcoat, hat pulled down over his brow. It was unclear whether he was more in danger of being assaulted by some low-life or arrested as a suspicious character by an over-enthusiastic idiot from Scotland Yard.

So this was legwork.

After more than two hours dawdling behind the rundown gambling den, Mycroft knew that this sort of activity was not really his forte. He was miserable, honestly, and also uneasy because he did not really know what would happen when—-if—-the man he was waiting for actually appeared. There were secret passwords involved, for heaven’s sake.

He felt a bit of a fool.

The cold air was seeping into his shoes, so he stamped his feet to get the blood flowing. Unexpectedly, he thought of India, of the warmth that had enveloped him, but that was only a memory now.

And that was was a dangerous line of thought. Memories.

Only the day before, he had received yet another querulous letter from his father, urging his return to India, where apparently there was a position awaiting him at Government House. Mycroft was running out of reasons for why he had to stay in London. It had been impressed on him that his activities had to be kept secret even from Father.

When Mycroft had the time and the inclination to think about it, he realised that Father had changed after Ananda’s disappearance. Whether it was grief or bitterness or something else altogether, William Holmes was not the man he had been. Despite that, his power was undiminished and still growing.

Sometimes, he wondered how Sherlock was getting on. Most days, however, he managed to forget that he even had a brother.

Before he could dwell on those sentimental thoughts, the door he’d been watching opened and a large man wearing a camel-coloured cape that Mycroft found a bit flamboyant emerged. He also wore a small yellow flower and was carrying a folded copy of the Times. After a pause, he spotted Mycroft waiting in the shadows and walked over. “Excuse me, sir, can you direct me in the direction of Euston Station?”

“Walk north for ten minutes and then turn east on Euston Road. Easy from there.”

The man handed him the folded paper and without another word walked away quickly. Not in the direction of Euston Station, Mycroft noted absently. Then he took a deep breath and left the alley as well.

Probably he only imagined the sound of footsteps following him.

*

3

He knew what everyone called him.

It was an appellation first used by one of the many short-lived tutors who had attempted to rein him in, specifically a Frenchman named Belvoir. The nickname was quickly picked up [only behind his back, of course] by the servants and then overheard by the son of someone from Father’s office, which meant it was known through-out the British community of Calcutta almost overnight.

_Enfant sauvage_

Not that he minded.

Sherlock Holmes. Wild child.

He had shaped his world just as he wanted it, an activity that was greatly aided by the fact that his father took no interest at all in what his younger son got up to. There was no longer even any attempt to keep a tutor employed. Once a month, the old man summoned Sherlock to his office and demanded to know what he was studying.

Sherlock always went into these interrogations well-armed with a [carefully curated] list of his recent readings and concise descriptions of his current experiments. Occasionally, over the years, there had been talk of Eton, but he doubted that Father would ever summon up enough interest to actually ship him off to England. At the end of every one of the sessions, the man would mutter that he had no idea at all what Mycroft would think of how Sherlock was behaving.

Why he thought Sherlock cared at all was unknown.

Finally, Father would wave him off and get back to running the known world.

And that suited Sherlock very well indeed. He was left to don his most comfortable trousers, an untucked shirt without a collar, and some raffia sandals from a street vendor and roam the streets of Calcutta. Enfant sauvage, indeed.

He learned the city and also how to watch its people. Sometimes, he followed the pickpockets just to see how many would fall victim to their nimble fingers. Other times, he lurked in the alleys to watch the women who worked there. He spied on the spoiled children of the British community being shepherded around by prim nannies.

Once in a while, he wandered into the old cemetery and walked amongst the graves, wondering if it would be better to know that Mummy was buried here, that there was a sentimental headstone he could stand in front of. Probably not. Honestly, he felt closest to her when playing the violin she had given him.

It was on one of those cemetery rambles that he decided to discover just what had happened to his mother the evening she left home and never returned.

*

The soft brown leather journal had been a gift to him from one of Father’s minions at Christmas, given to Sherlock in the vain hope of currying favour. Sherlock had set it aside, but that night he pulled it from the drawer, along with his new nib pen and opened the journal to the first smooth page. He took care with his handwriting.

THE CASE OF ANANDA HOLMES

Then he leant back against the teak headboard of his bed and stared at the words.

For some ridiculous reason, Sherlock suddenly remembered when he used to chase the butterflies, while Mummy watched and smiled. Those moments seemed to belong to another life entirely. The little boy he’d been was a stranger to him now.

Finally, he tucked the journal under his pillow and settled down to sleep.

*

The next morning, as soon as Father had left for work, Sherlock slipped into his office and sat at the ridiculously large oak desk. He didn’t even bother with the unlocked drawers, but instead began by using his knife, carefully, to open the bottom drawer.

Inside, there was a stack of files. Underneath some boring ones dealing with such things as wills, there was the report from the police dealing with his mother’s disappearance, which turned out to be exactly as useless as he had expected. No wonder Father had spoken so disparagingly of the force. The so-called report was filled with rumours and whispered suspicions and extravagant fantasies. Sherlock forced back the anger that rose up at some of the suppositions people had made about Mummy. 

And after it all, at the end of the over one-hundred pages, there was absolutely no conclusion drawn. There was only a note scribbled by the Chief Superintendent three years after the fact which read Case Closed.

Sherlock closed the file. One finger tapped a bit of Wagner on the top while he thought about what he had read,

Finally, he set that file aside and pulled out the final one.

For a moment, the name on the card attached to the front of the file meant nothing to him, but then he recalled an afternoon soon after Mummy vanished when he’d been hidden in this very room and listened to his father’s meeting with a confidential enquiry agent. This file was thicker than the official police report, if less tidy. Sherlock considered all the pages and decided that he needed to read it all very carefully.

He took the time to carefully rearrange the contents of the drawer to make the absence of one file less noticeable, although he doubted that Father ever looked in there anymore. Why would he? Finally, he closed the drawer and managed to engage the lock again.

Time to see what one Reginald Godwin had discovered about Mummy. Time to solve the mystery.

**


	11. Backwards and Forwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John begins his medical studies, Mycroft deals with a brutal murder, while Sherlock solves his first case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings to all. This is posting slightly later than usual, for which I apologise. The final read-through was done under the beginnings of a migraine, so if I missed anything blatant, let me know.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. And for those of you asking...in the next chapter Mycroft reunites with his little brother.
> 
> I appreciate every one of you.

Life can only be understood backwards,  
but must be lived forwards.

-Kierkegaard, S.

1

John ran a careful fingertip along the embossed gold printing on the diploma.

_John Hamish Watson_

He was now officially a graduate of the Randolph College For Boys. And not only a graduate, but the unexpected valedictorian. Although he supposed that it was not entirely proper, he allowed himself a moment of feeling avenged. A moment of rubbing his success in the faces of all those who had mocked and bullied him for being a scholarship boy who still worked as a servant in a great house part of the time.

There had been no one in the audience to applaud his success as he rose to accept his degree and award, but John was fine with that.

Finally, he carefully put the diploma and the accompanying certificate into his satchel, picked up his school cap for the last time and went to fetch the Cogent Safety Bicycle that Sir Malcolm had provided to him for the five-mile journey between Ashburn Hall and the the college. He would be working at the hall again for the three months before he was due in Edinburgh to begin his medical studies.

He could only imagine what his mother would say to the idea of him heading off to Scotland to become a doctor.

That he was getting above himself.

That he thought himself better than the rest of them.

That people would laugh at him for daring to believe that he could ever become a doctor.

As he peddled past fields not yet ready for harvest, John set aside all thoughts of his history, of those chains with which his family would have bound him. From this day onwards, his future was his own.

He lifted one hand to wave at some sheep staring at him from their field and let loose one triumphant shout. John Watson was on his way.

*

To his surprise, when he arrived back at the Hall, it was to find that a special tea had been arranged for him in the servants’ quarters. There were warm scones with fresh cream and even a small cake. Everyone gathered around the table and pretended to be happy for him. At one point, Mr Whittaker finished his scone and delicately wiped a bit of cream from his upper lip. “You have done well so far, John, no one can deny that. But remember that great challenges lie ahead for a boy like you.”

John was tempted to open his satchel and take out the valedictorian award certificate; he had not mentioned that to anyone here. Why should he, after all? It belonged to him, not them. Instead, he just nodded at the butler and ate his cake in silence.

A short time later, as he was removing the school uniform in his room, a summons arrived. He was to meet Sir Malcolm in the library. He dressed quickly in his ordinary clothing and hurried down the stairs. Walking into the library still gave him a sense of contentment that he had never really found anywhere else. He would, he realised suddenly, miss this room.

He stood in front of the desk.

“I have a full report from Randolph College,” Sir Malcolm said. “You have exceeded even my very high expectations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you feel entirely prepared for your studies at the Edinburgh School of Medicine?”

“I do, yes, sir.” John hoped that he did not sound arrogant, but false humility seemed a waste of time.

“As I am once again without the services of a secretary, you will fill that position for the next three months. There should be ample time for you to continue your reading, but I expect no shirking.”

Again, John just nodded. Sir Malcolm knew that he never shirked his duty, so the warning seemed a bit unnecessary.

*

The next three months went by very quickly, but also seemed to drag a bit. He was kept busy with work for Sir Malcolm and tried also to read several new medical books that had been ordered for him. Annoyingly, there was a new upstairs maid who was clearly intent upon chatting with him at every opportunity, but he was well-practised at putting off the giggling overtures of housemaids.

There was no time for such frivolities.

There _was_ time, of course, for a stern lecture on hard work and thrift. It was a strict budget that he would be living on, Sir Malcolm told him. It was also made clear that the continuation of the arrangement was solely down to him.

On the day of his departure, before he got into the carriage for the trip to the railroad station, Sir Malcolm presented him with a copy of Gray’s book on anatomy, bound in black leather, with his name on the cover in gold. Then, for the second time in John’s life, Sir Malcolm shook his hand, wishing him well.

Cook gave him a basket with sandwiches and biscuits for the train.

John had thought that perhaps he would be nervous when it came to it, but instead he was only excited, as if he were on the threshold of a great adventure.

2

He barely knew Timothy Black, actually.

There had been one dinner with Day and Mulberry when the man had joined the group mainly, it seemed, so that Mycroft could meet him. But after that there had been only the very rare encounter whenever Mycroft had to visit Downing Street. He never even learned exactly what position Black occupied there. They would pass a few words about the weather or whatever story had been in the Times headline that day. So, no, Black was by no means a friend or even a real acquaintance.

Nevertheless, word of his death came as a shock.

Mycroft was, as usual, going through the morning mail before delivering it to the Foreign Secretary, being sure to make a mental note of anything he would want to put into his report later. Suddenly, Day appeared at his desk, which was unprecedented. “Can you get away for a few minutes, Holmes?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.

It was almost eleven, when Mycroft would take the mail and whatever memos had appeared so far that morning in to the Secretary and then he was allowed to take a brief time himself for refreshments. Usually, he just took tea and biscuits from the tea lady when she brought the trolly around, but he told Day to meet him at the small dining room at the far end of the corridor.

When Mycroft had finished delivering the mail and memos, he joined Day in the corner of the otherwise empty room; well, empty save for the tea lady at the other end of the room, preparing her trolly. 

A cup of tea was already waiting for Mycroft on the table.

“Black is dead,” Day said immediately, softly, flatly.

Mycroft had been in the process of taking his first swallow of tea and he choked a bit, coughing, and then used his handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “Dead?” he replied in a hoarse whisper. “What the hell are you saying?”

Day took a quick gulp of his own tea, as if his throat had gone dry. “I’m saying that Black body was found near Tower Hill very early this morning.” Although Day’s voice remained detached, almost clinical, Mycroft could read his nerves in the small things. The way his index finger was tapping the side of the teacup. The rapid eye movement as his gaze moved around the room. “He had been garrotted with a piano wire.”

“Good god,” Mycroft said. He glanced around the room, which was now empty except for them; apparently the tea lady had departed with her cart to make the round of the offices. “Do you think it has something to do with the...group?”

“Well, of course it does,” Day snapped. “He was not robbed. And he was supposed to be meeting with a contact from Portsmouth.”

Mycroft pulled the watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and glanced at the time; he had to get back to the office.

Day leaned closer, although they were still alone. “There is a bit of, well, not good news, of course, but this is at least an indication that we are moving in the right direction. Someone is feeling threatened.”

There were several things that Mycroft might have said at that point. Instead of saying any of them, he just gulped down the rest of his tea and then stood. Then, although it was probably not the politic thing to say, the words came out anyway. “I’m actually feeling a bit threatened myself, if you want to know.”

With that, he turned around and walked back to the office.

*

The day finally ended and Mycroft walked back to his flat, trying not look around in search of murderers with piano wires in hand. Once he had arrived home safely, he made a cup of tea and sat down to think about what had happened and what it might mean for him. Oddly, he thought about what advice his father might give him, were he here and had he spent any thought at all to advising his oldest son.

Some words from the past drifted into his mind. Not from Father, of course, but from Aristotle. _You will never do anything without courage._

The question for now: was just how much courage did Mycroft Holmes actually possess?

If he hesitated at this point, if he wavered, would that not shape the rest of his life?

And he had known since he was that lonely boy watching birds in India, reading ridiculous books to his dying mother, fetching his father from the arms of his mistress that having the power to shape the world around himself was important. Perhaps even the most important thing.

Finally, Mycroft undressed and got into bed, although he feared that sleep would be hard to come by.

For some reason, perhaps his earlier musings on his life in India, he found himself thinking of Sherlock. What would his brother be like now? Did he still collect butterflies?

But then, ruthlessly, he cut off those thoughts. There was no benefit to drowning in useless thoughts of the past. Especially not when there were vicious killers about.

3

Sherlock was not convinced that Mr Reginald Goodwin was tremendously intelligent, but he had to give the man some credit for having a certain amount of knowledge of the dark alleyways of Calcutta. Irritatingly, his crabbed handwriting was difficult to decipher, especially late at night, when the only illumination came from a single small gaslight.

It seemed as if Goodwin had sent a report every few days, keeping Father informed of his progress [or lack of the same] in the case. Sherlock had decided that The Case was how he had to think of it, because if he dwelt on the fact that he was actually reading about Mummy, he might become distracted by sentiment.

Logic and science were what he needed now, not sepia memories of the woman who used to watch him chase butterflies and smile.

His eyes kept drifting closed and finally he slipped into sleep, unaware when the papers scattered on the floor.

The next morning, he realised that, for some reason, Father thought he was reading Babbage’s _Reflections on the Decline of Science in England._ Occasionally he would glare at Sherlock across the breakfast table and demand to know what he had learned. Sherlock had no idea why the old man was pretending to care, but he dutifully recited facts recalled from when he had actually read the book eighteen months ago.

“Take care not to fall behind in your studies,” his father said then, as he stood, ready to go run his own part of the Empire. “I shall soon be making preparations for you to attend Eton.”

Since he had been saying those words for at least three years, Sherlock ignored him.

It took him almost two days to finish reading Goodwin’s reports and the end was irritatingly frustrating and disappointing because it was not an ending at all, but merely a statement that he had a new line of enquiry to pursue and would be in touch again soon.

That was the end.

Sherlock slammed the file closed.

Idly, he fingered the card that had been attached to the front of the file with a slightly rusted straight pin. Goodwin and Baxter, Confidential Investigations. The address for the business was on a road with which he was vaguely familiar, as there was a cordwainer there who made shoes for Father and, occasionally, for him as well.

That was an errand for the next day.

Before going to bed, Sherlock picked up his violin and played the second movement of Tchaikovsky’s Concerto Op.35. He hated the piece because it was so obnoxiously sentimental.

He played it twice.

*

Father was not best pleased when Sherlock appeared for breakfast in his dressing gown. “I have a migraine,” Sherlock mumbled. “Going to have some tea and dry toast and go back to bed.”

“Do you better to have some fresh air and exercise,” Father said, but his words were typically disinterested and easy to ignore.

There was no further conversation as Sherlock sipped his heavily-sugared tea and nibbled a single slice of toast. After only a few minutes, Father stood and left the room. Sherlock lingered until he heard the front door close and the carriage drive away.

Immediately, he hurried back to his bedroom. It was quite convenient for him that the servants preferred to ignore him whenever possible, especially when he had something important to do. Now, there was an important decision to be made.

What should he wear?

Should he dress like a young gentleman in a proper suit and a perfectly tied cravat? Or would it be better to appear as a low-class snooper in the filthy canvas trousers and ragged shirt that he sometimes donned when escaping the house to roam the city? He stood in front of the wardrobe and considered his options.

In the end, he compromised.

Neither gentleman or nor ruffian seemed right, so Sherlock pulled on a pair of proper, if slightly worn, trousers and a plain shirt with a collar but no cravat, finally adding a just-too-small jacket. Respectable, slightly boring, probably not too bright. Perfect for his purpose.

Once dressed, he climbed out of the window and into the leaves of peepal tree. From there, it was an easy drop to the ground and a quick move through the gate.

It always felt like freedom when he escaped the house like this. Sherlock usually smiled when he moved away from the place he saw most often as a prison. Today, however, he didn’t smile.

His destination was a small lane off the main road, Bagbazar, a pathway lined with shops catering to the British inhabitants of the city. Sherlock walked right past the cordwainer’s, glancing inside long enough to see the old man bent over his workbench.

It was another few minutes before he reached the address on the card in his pocket. The building was shabbier than most and it appeared that the business he wanted was on the first floor, as the ground floor premises seemed to hold only an abandoned solicitor’s office. A window fronting the street had the words Goodwin and Baxter painted on it, the gold of the words faded and flaking. With a sigh, Sherlock climbed a rather shaky flight of stairs erected haphazardly on the side of the building and opened the door.

The interior did not improve his impression.

A grossly overweight man in a none-too-clean white suit was planted behind a desk in a way that made Sherlock wonder if he ever moved at all. Only a pair of beady black eyes watching him showed any real sign of life. Sherlock took two steps inside and closed the door. “Mr Goodwin?” he asked, although this man was nothing like the one he remembered meeting with his father. Still time changed people.

The man gave a yelp which was probably supposed to be a laugh. “Chance would be a fine thing. That bastard walked out one day over three years ago and never came back.”

Oh. Sherlock was not sure where that left him. Although it probably explained why the reports to his father had ended so abruptly. “Then I assume that you are Mr Baxter?” he finally asked, forgetting to affect the voice that suited his appearance.

“You assume right. Now the only question is, who are you, boy?”

“My name is Holmes and I am interested in the case Goodwin was working on when he disappeared,” Sherlock said.

“Are you now?” Baxter appeared to think about that and Sherlock was momentarily bemused by the fact that he could actually read the effort on his fleshy face. “Some missing woman, is all I remember.”

Sherlock frowned. “Did he leave behind any notes?”

Baxter shrugged. “I couldn’t just let his things clutter up the office, you know.”

A single glance around the shabby, untidy room was enough to pass judgement on that remark.

Finally, one plump finger pointed vaguely towards a dusty cabinet pushed into the far corner. “Luckily for you, I am a sentimental man. Shoved whatever he left in there. Make free with it, if you like.”

Sherlock dragged a chair across the room and sat in front of the cabinet. Before pulling open the drawer, he looked over his shoulder at Baxter. “Did you not wonder where Goodwin had gone? Your partner vanishes and you do nothing?”

A look of indignation flashed across the man’s face, but Sherlock could also see something else in the expression. Embarrassment, he thought it was. “I told them down at the police. They weren’t much interested.”

That Sherlock could believe.

Baxter seemed keen to justify himself. “I had my own work to do, you know?”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock muttered, as he pulled open the drawer. His heart dropped a bit at the jumble of papers that had been shoved inside. But, for once, luck was with him, because, although the very top layer was made up of mail and other miscellaneous items, right below that was one of the familiar files. He pulled it out and started reading it eagerly. These were clearly the pages that Goodwin had never delivered to Father, because he suddenly disappeared. And no one looked for him, even the old man, apparently.

It took several minutes of reading until Sherlock saw the line that mattered.

_...and I have become convinced that the brother is involved in this..._

His first thought was that the ‘brother’ referred to was Mycroft, but he immediately realised how ridiculous that idea was. Mycroft had departed India long before Mummy vanished. He admonished himself not to be an idiot and continued to read.

At first, the name Jaideep Patel meant nothing to him, but then he read the sloppy footnote at the bottom of the page—- _Brother, estranged, radical_ —-before he realised that Mummy’s name had been Patel before she married Father. And then he had a vague memory of a brother being mentioned once or twice, never favourably, at least by his father.

As he continued reading, it became clear that Goodwin had come to believe that Patel had actually killed his own sister, apparently because he hated her choice of husband.

He had killed Mummy.

Sherlock felt a sudden, stabbing pain deep inside his chest and he bent over with a gasp. He had not understood that until this very moment some part him, some tiny part, had always held out hope that Mummy might come back one day. He trembled with anger at himself for being so stupid.

“You all right?” Baxter asked suddenly.

He swallowed hard and straightened. “Fine,” he said stonily. He returned his eyes to the page.

_I have located Patel and plan to begin a surveillance on him tomorrow in order to decide on the best method of bringing him to the authorities._

Those were the last words written down in the report.

Well, save for a scribbled address in a corner of the page.

He held up the file. “May I take this?”

Baxter just waved a hand. “Take everything if you like. I could use the space.”

“Only this,” Sherlock said. “Thank you,” he remembered to say before hurrying out the door and down the wobbling stairs.

*

It had been a long time.

What were the chances that Patel still lived in the same place? Sherlock did not rate the odds very highly, but never-the-less, he was going to the address in Goodwin’s report. He waved a coin at the driver of a wagon filled with fabric bolts and hopped into the back. 

The driver dropped him very near the address, although the man expressed concern over his safety.

And, in truth, the road was not a pleasant place to be. Sometimes Sherlock wished that he looked rather more like his Indian ancestors than his British ones. It would have helped at times like this. Instead, he seemed to fit into neither group comfortably, always seeming most like something alien, something odd.

But Sherlock waved off the driver’s concern with thanks and walked away.

The boarding house at the address was rundown, like the rest of the area. An elderly Indian man sat on the ground in front of the building, drinking something from a green bottle. He eyed Sherlock with suspicion as he approached.

Sherlock pressed his hands together and gave a half-bow. “Namaste,” he said respectfully.

The old man nodded, as if the honorific were no more than his due.

Politeness would dictate that the conversation now travel a winding road of verbal detours, meaningless but polite chatter, that would not advance his mission at all. Sherlock did not have the patience for that, so he came right to the point. “Do you know Jaideep Patel?” Seeing the suspicion flare again, Sherlock hurried to add. “He is my uncle and I have not seen him in some years.”

The gaze that swept over him was skeptical.

“My English father did not approve,” he said and it was not exactly a lie.

“Ahh.” After a moment, the old man nodded. “He lives in the cellar. But he is not here now.”

Perfect, Sherlock thought, but aloud he said, “Oh, well, in that case I shall return another day.” He stepped forward and bent to place two coins on the ground. “Please do not tell him that I was here,” he said softly. “I would like to surprise him.” He dropped one more coin. “For your trouble.”

He straightened and walked away, feeling the man’s gaze on him all the way to the corner. As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock cut back and ran through a garbage-strewn alley until he reached the boarding house again. There was a ramshackle fence, but the gate was not locked. He slipped into the small garden that contained not a single flower, but only more rubbish.

Once there had been a window in the cellar, but the glass was now long gone. Although it was a bit tight, he was slender and managed to crawl through the hole and get inside.

There was only the light coming on through that same hole, but it was enough. A quick glance was sufficient to take in the small room. It held a filthy pallet with one thin blanket. A wooden straight-backed chair and a table with a broken leg that had been propped up with a stack of old newspapers. In one corner, there sat a battered metal trunk.

It was locked, but Sherlock had his knife with him and the lock proved to be not challenge at all. Inside the trunk, he found a bundle of shabby clothing, a number of anti-British bills of the sort one sometimes saw posted around the city, and a few personal items. Sherlock was about to pull back, disappointed, but then, under his fingers, he could feel that the trunk had a false bottom. After a few tugs, it came up to reveal a hidden cavity.

What he found there was a small bundle wrapped in a familiar ivory silk shawl and tied together with a faded pink ribbon. Sherlock pulled the bundle out and very slowly, carefully, almost tenderly, unwrapped it. Inside, there was a brooch, a perfect diamond surrounded by four emeralds. And a wedding ring.

Ignoring the small rusty specks that could only be blood, he held the shawl closer and almost thought that he could still smell the spices and civet of his mother’s perfume.

Finally, he wrapped the bundle up again and shoved it into his knapsack. Then he left his uncle’s room.

*

Once he was home again, Sherlock went directly to his room, where he wrote up a careful report of everything he had done. He added Goodwin’s final notes and then took it all downstairs to his father’s office.

He set the papers in the middle of the desk, resting the shawl and its contents on top.

Although he waited for hours, father did not come to see him and talk about what he’d found.

Later that evening, however, he heard the police arrive and crept down the stairs to listen. Much of what was said was too quiet to hear, but he could make out enough of the words. According to what the officer said as they stood in the foyer talking, Jaideep Patel was now in custody and had even lead them to the remains of both his victims.

The remains.

As the Inspector was leaving, the two men paused by the door. “This could not have come at a worse time for the government,” Father said. 

Of course that would be his first concern.

“We will keep things under control,” the Inspector said promised.

They shook hands as Sherlock quickly returned to his room.

Father never once talked to him about what had happened. All Sherlock ever knew were the scant details which appeared in the newspapers. None of which mentioned him by name or the fact that the police had been handed all the evidence like a gift. 

He thought about getting angry, but then decided that it didn’t matter.

He had solved the case. Mummy, he thought, would be proud of him. 

_My clever boy,_ she would say with a smile.

Sherlock Holmes was a clever boy.

**


	12. To Make An End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lives are being shaped as one young man gains power, another gains knowledge, and a brother struggles to find his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, it has to be said: I am sorry, Sherlock. One more painful loss, although not by death, I hasten to say.
> 
> Anyway, to all of you reading this saga, my appreciation and i hope you are enjoying it. I really do delight in hearing from you, so any comments you pass along are very welcome.

For last year’s words belong to last  
year’s language and next year’s words  
await other voices.  
And to make an end is to make a  
beginning.

-Eliot, T.S.

1

His room was in the attic, which was the cheapest accommodation in the house.

But John did not mind and very soon the place felt like home. He felt comfortable surrounded by the faded wallpaper with its repeating pattern of violets and the creaking wooden floor with the cotton rag rug right in the middle. He did not mind the narrowness of the bed or the lumpiness of the mattress. After a few months, even the saccharine painting of kittens hanging over the small desk ceased annoying him.

Not that he spent all that much time within the four walls of the room.

The boarding house was only a mile from the medical school and he was most often to be found there, running from one building to another, from lecture to lecture, trying to fill his head with all the information humanly possible. It was all equally exhausting and exhilarating.

One morning over breakfast, Mr Andrews, a new boarder who sold notions to haberdashery shops from Edinburgh to York, asked him, “Just what are those lectures you keep running off to all about?”

John finished his toast before replying. “Botany, chemistry, anatomy, physiology.” That was just the beginning, of course. Over his time in Edinburgh, he had also struggled through some French and a little German. Not to mention lectures in moral philosophy. He did not complain about the hours spent on compulsive courses that seemed to have very little to do with the practice of medicine, because it was all knowledge.

Sarah, the only daughter of Mr and Mrs Hopkins, owners of the boarding house, paused in her clearing away of the breakfast dishes. “John is very clever,” she said with a smile at him.

Sarah smiled at him a lot, had done so since his arrival. The entire Hopkins family had been so kind to him.

By this time, however, John scoffed at his own naïveté. It had taken him a very long time to realise that Sarah’s parents thought that a promising young physician as a son-in-law would be a very positive development and clearly their daughter did not object. In the slightest. John had spent much of his time in their house trying to manoeuvre his way through the hazardous course of all that enthusiasm without risking his accommodation.

Mr Hopkins came into the dining room in time to enter the conversation. “John is going to be an excellent doctor,” he said

John tried not to be irritated by the unjustifiable pride that Sarah’s family seemed to take in _his_ accomplishments. While he never failed to be grateful to Sir Malcolm for making all of this possible, everything else was down to he himself and the very hard work he was doing. Mr Hopkins had done nothing but provide a tiny attic room and meals, for which they were being fairly paid. Instead of saying anything, though, he merely gave a tight-lipped smile and excused himself from the table.

Sarah smiled at him again as he left the dining room.

She was a pretty enough girl, he supposed, and not stupid. Sometimes John wondered if perhaps he _should_ be considering the possibility. It was probably a good thing for a doctor to be settled into life, with a respectable wife at his side. But that was not what John saw when he imagined his future. He dreamt of...something more exciting, although he could not put a name to what that something was. All he felt sure of was that there was no place in that future for Sarah Hopkins.

As he collected his coat and hat and left the house, John dismissed all thoughts of anything except the day ahead. There was an operation scheduled this morning that he was eager to view. Even now, midway through his studies, there were too few opportunities for him to see any surgeries and fewer still on which he could assist. But Mr Smythe had rather taken to John’s dedication and hard work and so had promised him a small role in the surgery today.

Nothing else mattered, really.

The sunny day only added to his cheerful mood as he hurried toward’s Surgeon’s Square. After all, why not be happy? Here was John Watson, getting above his station and damned proud of it.

And now there was an operation on the cancerous breast of a well-known solicitor’s wife to experience.

John grinned and walked even more quickly, feeling that his destination was not only the operating theatre, but his own future.

*

2

_MYCROFT HOLMES_

He was not ashamed to admit that it still gave him a small jolt of pleasure to see the name painted on the door of this office. _His_ office, just steps away from that of the Secretary of War to whom he was the chief assistant. Even Mycroft had to admit that his rise to power had moved much more quickly than anyone had expected.

He chose to believe that his success was down to his own skills and intelligence, but privately was forced to accept that his father’s influence had no doubt played a part as well. The name of Holmes carried a certain cache and had since the reign of Henry VIII. Mycroft could not shed that history, even had he wanted to do so.

Mycroft went into the office and settled behind his desk to read through the memoranda which had arrived in the early morning delivery. Some of them were, as usual, of very little interest to him, primarily because he was already aware of whatever was contained therein, and those went into a pile to be delivered to the Secretary immediately. He pressed the button to summon his clerk, Baxter. When the eager-faced young man appeared, Mycroft indicated the box holding the papers. “Please deliver these to the Secretary’s office, Baxter.” The unspoken implication was that the ones still left on his desk required a closer reading or a higher level of security.

Once he was alone again, Mycroft unlocked the drawer at the bottom of his desk, raised the false bottom and took out his small black ledger and pen. He began to carefully read the reports, occasionally making a tidy note in his ledger. Coded notes, of course. He greatly enjoyed this part of his work for the group. Which he kept forgetting, in his own head, to call it by its new ‘official’ name. The Committee.  
Which seemed rather affected, in his opinion. A bit like one of those adventure tales by William Kingston that were so popular amongst young boys. He vaguely remembered sending one, The Three Midshipmen perhaps, to Sherlock on a long-ago birthday.

But he raised no objections to the new name, because it was too minor to merit his attention.

The only thing that mattered was that, within the group, his star had risen as quickly as it had in Whitehall. There was no more legwork for him, no more hanging about in dark alleys to exchange secrets with shadowy figures that he was never sure would not kill him on the spot. No more using his formidable language skills to pose as a shady Frenchman or a nervous German princeling. Roles like that were not where his particular talents lay.

Reading dull memoranda and excavating out the important details, the one telling phrase or seemingly innocuous sum, was his skill. He flattered himself that it was, in the end, more important.

It took an hour to finish his careful reading, marking particular passages for the Secretary’s attention as he went [some of which were actually important and some just thoughts that he wanted to implant in the man’s brain]. Finally, he once again locked away his journal and summoned Baxter to deliver the sealed dispatch box. And then to fetch him some tea and [two] biscuits, please.

It was with the tea and biscuits that the letter arrived. “From your father,” Baxter said cheerfully, handing over the envelope and apparently not noticing the very subtle grimace his words brought to Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft realised that it had been some time since he had heard from the old man and he was not especially interested in seeing what he had to say now. Almost petulantly, he sipped tea and ate one of the ginger biscuits before picking up the envelope and breaking the seal.

He knew immediately that a clerk, not Father, had actually written the words, although they had no doubt been dictated.

_Mycroft,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and that your career is flourishing. The reports I receive are most promising._

_Sadly, I must send unhappy news from here. Over the past year, my health has declined rather precipitously and now the physician has told me that there is little left that he can do. While I regret having to pull you away from Whitehall, it is necessary that you return home as soon as possible. There are many important matters that must be tended to and I trust only you to do what is required. Never fear, there is already a position awaiting you at Government House, one that will position you brilliantly to play an important role in the future of the Empire. The prime minister is aware of the situation._

_I trust that I will hear from you expeditiously with your travel plans._

_Father_

Mycroft carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. Then he ate the second biscuit and finished his tea.

His bastard of a father never disappointed, did he?

As if all he had to do was issue an order and everyone would scurry to comply. Send someone away when it was convenient to do so and then summon them back whenever it pleased him.

Well, William Holmes could go to the devil if he thought that Mycroft was going to throw over both his position here and his place on the Committee just so he could run back to Calcutta to watch him die.

*

It was not until late the following night that Mycroft sat down in his rooms in Kensington to draft a reply to the letter. He poured himself a glass of port, lit his pipe and stared at the empty paper, trying to think what to write.

Before he could make a single mark on the stationery, however, there was a soft tap at his door.

There were only two people who ever visited his rooms at this hour and without being announced by the landlady, who was very particular about such things, so it was no surprise to open the door and see Day standing there. With Mulberry off to Ireland on some mysterious task, Day was running things on his own.

“Late for a call,” Mycroft said mildly, deciding that any unexpected visitor would just have to deal with him in his shirtsleeves and dressing gown. He waved Day into a chair.

Day sat and proceeded to remove his leather gloves slowly. Mycroft thought that the other young man had something of a dramatic streak and sometimes wondered how seriously he even took all of this espionage business. Was it only some kind of a game to him? But then, he would remember the rumour within the Committee that Day had arranged for [or even committed himself] the savage beating of a man thought to be a Russian agent.

“I do apologise for disturbing you,” Day murmured, setting the gloves on his lap. “But this is a matter of some urgency.” He glanced towards the desk, where the paper and pen awaited Mycroft’s attention. “I was sorry to hear of your father’s illness.”

Mycroft was long past the point of being surprised by what Day knew. Truth was, if the prime minister knew, so, probably, did Day. “Thank you,” he replied automatically.

“No doubt you are obliged to travel to India soon.”

Mycroft blinked. “He asked—ordered—me to do so, actually, but I was about to write to him refusing. I have my work here and absolutely no desire to return to India.”

“Hmmm...” was the only reply that came for a moment. Then Day fixed his gaze on Mycroft. “I wonder, though, if we might take a broader view of things.”

Mycroft finally sat in the second chair. “A broader view?”

“Indeed. Much is happening in India. Things that will affect the Empire.” Day paused to make a point. Dramatic streak. “The Widow of Windsor is concerned.”

Trust Day to throw in a mention of Her Majesty. Mycroft sighed. “Are you saying that I should go back to that benighted place? As much as I do not care to do so?”

“It wouldn’t be forever,” Day assured him. “A few years, no doubt, would see you back here in London. With the gratitude of people in the highest places. Duty can be difficult. After all, Mulberry was not at all keen to traipse off to that Irish hellhole either, but he did so.”

Mycroft wanted to point out that a trip to Dublin was hardly the same as one to India. For some reason, his gaze fixed on the two portraits hanging on the wall, just as they had hung on the wall of every place in which he had lived since coming to England. His mother and his brother. Two ghosts who haunted him sometimes when the night was very dark. Figures from a life that was no longer his.

His mother was beyond his reach, her ashes scattered on a hill in Somerset, near the village where she had been born.

Mycroft suspected that Sherlock was just as unreachable.

Finally, he sighed and nodded.

*

The voyage from Southampton to Calcutta was much improved from the one Mycroft had made in the opposite direction years before. Not luxurious, by any means, but tolerable. He spent a lot of time in his tiny cabin, reading the pile of reports that Day had presented to him just before he embarked.

“I think that perhaps you have avoided becoming too involved with things concerning this part of the Empire,” Day said with rather too much perception. “This information should catch you up. I know that I can count on you to read between the lines.”

He also gave Mycroft the name of his contact at Government House. ‘Reggie Crane is a good fellow. He has handled a few things for your father, in fact.”

Were his words meant to be reassuring? In fact,what Mycroft feared the most was getting tangled in the old man’s Byzantine machinations and never finding his way out of them.

When he tired of the four walls in his cabin, Mycroft would carefully replace the files in the lockbox and then secure the box with a chain beneath the bed, before going above to take a stroll about the deck. He was practised enough these days to make small talk with the other passengers, coming across to them as a pleasant enough fellow, if a bit obsessed with the avian life India.

One of the passengers, a young woman named Charlotte, seemed keen to stroll and chat with him, although whether that was because she really enjoyed his company or only wanted to escape from her grim-faced mother was unclear. And irrelevant.

It was on one of their walks, as Charlotte chattered on about how she would miss the theatre in London, with Mycroft contributing only the occasional nod or hum of implied interest, that he first noticed the man.

Medium height, medium weight, inoffensive suit. A hat that shaded his face a bit, although not suspiciously so. Nevertheless, all that ordinariness immediately made Mycroft uneasy. Was the man watching them? Or only watching the reasonably pretty young woman? Possible, but...

After a moment, Mycroft chastised himself for being ridiculously leery of someone who was undoubtedly just another passenger, bored enough to stand on the deck and watch other people.

He returned his attention to Charlotte’s chatter about the time she saw Ellen Terry onstage.

It was the next afternoon when he saw the man again.

Mycroft was sitting on a bench on deck, taking a rare break from reading reports to indulge in a novel, _The Moonstone_ by Wilkie Collins. He lifted his eyes as one of the crewmen yelled at a cabin boy over some fault. Then his eyes flickered around the deck and he saw the man. This time, he was leaning against the railing, quite clearly not looking at Mycroft.

After a moment, Mycroft closed the book and returned to his cabin. He checked the lock on the door to be sure that it had not been messed about with and once he was inside immediately made sure that the lockbox was still in place.

Mycroft sat down on the bed and took a deep breath.

*

It happened the very next night.

Mycroft had spent the whole day in his cabin, save for going to dinner. But the weather had turned sultry and he was unable to sleep in the unbearably stifling room. It was very late, so he felt safe in going above in just his trousers and shirt, not even donning stockings or shoes. He did not intend to wander far, but simply to stand by the rail and hope to catch some hint of a breeze.

As he had thought would be the case, no one was about, not even any crewmen save the sentries posted on either end of the ship. He could, however, hear the distant sound of fiddle music and soft singing.

Later, when he had time to think about it calmly, Mycroft decided that not donning his shoes might well have saved his life. His bare feet were able to grip the deck just a bit better than the soles of his shoes might have done, so when the man in the unremarkable suit suddenly dashed out of the darkness and slammed into him, he did not go over the railing.

Instead, he immediately went into a defensive stance, recalling the lessons that he had taken after an unfortunate incident in an East End alley some months preciously. Also after the fact, he could not remember exactly what move he made which propelled his opponent over the railing. The man gave one short muffled shout of panic, but when he hit the water, the sound was too soft for anyone but Mycroft to hear.

For one frozen moment, Mycroft stood where he was breathing heavily. A glance one direction and then the other showed that both sentries were looking out at the dark water and, judging by the two orange glows, smoking.

Finally, Mycroft whirled around and ran all the way back to his cabin.

He spent a restless night, expecting and fearing a knock on the door, followed by a forced march to the brig. But no knock ever came. He forced himself to go to dinner the next day, where the conversation was all about the rumour that some poor man had apparently lost his mind and jumped overboard. His absence was only noticed when he missed a meeting with the captain.

Charlotte rhapsodised that it was probably the result of an unhappy love affair.

Mycroft wondered why an ordinary passenger would be meeting with the captain. And then, when he saw the officer standing on the bridge the next day, wondered if the man was looking at him suspiciously.

Finally, he wondered if he were losing his mind.

3

They stared at one another for three days, neither apparently willing to make the first move. Finally, on the fourth day, Sherlock brought a bit of bacon from breakfast into the garden and held it out. “Would you like to have this?”

The dog gave it a moment’s thought and then dashed over from the neighbour’s garden. Usually the two gardens were separated by a wooden fence, but that had been taken down to make way for a new stone wall that was slowly being built.

Sherlock tossed the bacon and the dog caught it. Then he came closer and nuzzled at Sherlock’s hand. “You seem to be a very nice dog,” he said, sitting on the ground despite the odds of his trousers getting dirty.

The setter curled up next to him and Sherlock tangled his fingers in the soft fur. After a moment, he said, “I have recently revived my interest in pursuing life as a pirate. Would you perhaps be interested in running off to sea as my first mate? I could call you...Redbeard. Does that suit?”

The dog licked his hand in apparent approval.

“Excellent.”

They sat in the afternoon sun and watched the Indian stone masons work on the new wall, until an hour later, a man stuck his head out the door. “Willie, come here,” he called.

Redbeard shared a look with Sherlock and then went home.

It turned out that Redbeard was a very good dog indeed. Every day he waited for Sherlock to appear with the bit of bacon, which was received with gratitude, and then they would sit and talk while watching the fence grow longer. They talked about being pirates and about whatever experiment Sherlock was conducting. As the fence was extended, Redbeard seemed a bit worried, but Sherlock assured the dog that once it was completed, he would climb over it to see him.

One day as they sat there, Sherlock said, “I think that before too long I will be an orphan. Are you an orphan as well? Would you even know if you were?”

No one had actually said that Father was dying, but it seemed clear that he was ill, although he still went to Government House most days. The gravity of the situation was made clear to Sherlock that very night when, over a mostly silent dinner, Father made an unexpected announcement.

“Mycroft is coming home,” he said suddenly.

Sherlock’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Good god,” he said. He took the bite, chewed, and swallowed, then frowned. “Why now?” Why now, since he did not come when I needed him? When I pleaded with him to come. He said none of that aloud, of course.

“There are things to be done. I need someone I can trust at the office.”

Nothing else was said on that subject. Or on any other subject.

The next day, Redbeard expressed no opinion about worthless brothers, but Sherlock gave him permission to bite Mycroft when he arrived.

That night, Sherlock was stricken with one of those dreadful headaches to which he was prone. All he could do when the migraines hit was rest in his darkened room, not able to eat, trying to sip cool water without vomiting it up again.

It was three days before he was able to leave the house, feeling pale and fragile, seeking some air less oppressive than what could be found in his bedroom. Immediately, he saw that the stone wall was finished, so there was no sign of Redbeard.

Sherlock easily scaled the wall and sat on top, looking into the other garden. “Redbeard?” he called softly. Then he saw the old gardener, trimming some vines on the side of the house. A house that looked closed up and quiet. “Where’s the dog?” Sherlock called out to him.

He did not stop working. “Gone with the family. Back to England. New people coming soon.”

Sherlock felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach and he almost bent over with the imagined pain.

Without saying anything else, he slipped down off the wall and went back into the house. Into his room, where he curled up on the bed again.

*

Father insisted that because he was not well enough, Sherlock would have to go to the docks and welcome Mycroft when the ship bringing him arrived. The argument that he would not know the man if he stumbled over him gained Sherlock nothing.

So the next day, he was forced to stand beside the carriage and watch as the passengers began to disembark.

Contrary to what he had told Father would be the case, he recognised his brother as soon as Mycroft started down the gangplank. The tall, thin man with hair that threatened to become ginger in the right sunlight and a slightly supercilious expression on his pale face paused long enough to survey the crowd waiting to greet the passengers. After a moment, he saw Sherlock and apparently recognised him as well, because he walked in that direction immediately. In one hand, he carried a metal box.

They stared at one another, silent amidst the noise of other, happier reunions.

“Hello, brother mine,” Mycroft said finally.

“Father made me come,” Sherlock replied sullenly.

After a moment, the porter arrived with Mycroft’s luggage. They watched as it was loaded onto a cart and then, still silent, climbed into the waiting carriage. There seemed to be a third passenger as well: all the years that had divided them. It was a hostile presence, Sherlock felt, but at the same time he felt safe with it there between them.

The presence of the cold anger protected him.

*

It was very late that night, when Sherlock, restless and unable to sleep, got out of bed, walked over to the window and looked down into the garden. The moon cast a pale glow over the scene and he could see Mycroft standing there, smoking. His brother was wearing a dressing gown and his feet were bare. He was just standing there, staring at the stars overhead as if they might give him the answer to some dark question.

After a moment, Sherlock went back to bed and pulled the blanket over his head.

**


	13. Where I Have To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrivals and departures. All change for our heroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter Thirteen! I do hope you are continuing to enjoy this saga. Any comments you would like to send along will be very welcome.
> 
> On Friday, I will be beginning some major dental work. I hope that it will not affect my posting schedule for Sunday, but if there is pain and/or drugs involved, there might be a slight delay to Chapter Fourteen. Fingers crossed!

I learn by going where I have to go.  
-Roethke, T.

1

Mycroft rarely thought about the man he had killed on the voyage over.

It had clearly been an act taken in his own defence, which would make him blameless in law. Assuming it could be proven if it came to court. Which it never would, he had persuaded himself. Still, sometimes when the house was dark and silent [well, silent save for the sound of Sherlock playing that damned violin in the middle of the night] Mycroft would see the look on the man’s face and hear again that brief scream as he fell into the Atlantic. 

He felt no guilt. Only a fervent sense of gratitude that it had not been him now providing food for sea creatures.

He’d written a [coded] letter to Day, telling him what had happened. In the response, it was clear that both Day and Mulberry wanted to place the blame on the Irish problem, but then both of them seemed convinced that everything had to do with Ireland.

For some reason, Mycroft wondered if perhaps the attack was actually related to the fact that he was coming to India, although why that should be made no sense. In any event, he had very little time to think about it.

Father was dying somewhat more quickly than anyone had anticipated and apparently he had many tasks that could and must be accomplished before the end. And every one of those tasks, it seemed, could only be done by Mycroft. Not willing to waste even a minute, almost from the day he arrived, the old man had sent Mycroft off to Government House. It was slightly startling how easy it was to slip into the role of Mycroft Holmes, the one in charge. There was, naturally enough, some low muttering about upstarts and arrogant bastards, but in the main, people seemed willing to let him get on with it. That probably had something to with the fact that things were very unsettled at the moment and no one else wanted the responsibility of trying to fix it all. The letter from Downing Street with which he had been provided probably helped as well.

As far as Mycroft could tell, Government House was a nest of conspiracy and duplicity. Rather fascinating, actually. 

The ‘good fellow’ Reggie Crane approached him soon after he arrived, giving the coded greeting that Day, unnecessarily in Mycroft’s opinion, had arranged. Crane, like so many associated with the Committee, was entirely unprepossessing. Sometimes Mycroft thought that espionage had to have been a more colourful pursuit back in the time of the Virgin Queen. Surely John Dee and William Cecil must have been more fascinating than men like Reggie Crane.

Mycroft mused a bit on his chances of becoming Victoria’s Francis Walsingham.

Still, at least Crane was well-versed in how things happened at Government House and he had also prepared Mycroft admirably for his first meeting with the Viceroy, so it took very little deliberation to name the man as his confidential clerk. He suspected that Day would be pleased.

Every evening when Mycroft returned to the house, he was expected at Father’s bedside to give a report on the day. It reminded him of when he was ordered to stand in front the man and recite what he had learned from Mr Hall, his tutor.

It was hard to believe that the large, blustering and arrogant man he had known as a child was now this grey-faced, shrinking figure propped up by pillows and gasping for breath. Probably it was inevitable for him to compare this experience with watching his mother die all those years ago. She had faded away like a pale ghost, almost beautiful in her peaceful departure. This passing was more like witnessing the slow disintegration of a human being.

The main difference between the two events, of course, was Mycroft’s own reaction to each of them.

But he did not want to think about that too much, because it probably put him in a less than flattering light.

The number of things he did not especially want to think about seemed to be growing.

And then there was Sherlock.

Mycroft did not, as a rule, appreciate a mystery, especially when there were so few clues to decipher. He did not know how to solve the puzzle of a boy who spoke very little, but whose words, when they did come, were biting and clever and dripping with disdain. Still, more than once, Mycroft found himself having to hide a smile in reaction to something entirely inappropriate said by Sherlock.

With everything else keeping him so busy and distracted, Mycroft had very little idea of what Sherlock did with his time. There was no tutor, he knew, and when during one of their rare conversations, he had questioned that, Sherlock merely sneered. “Idiots,” he had then muttered, not even looking up from the paper upon which he was apparently composing.

Mycroft was very familiar with the late-night violin playing, but had not known that Sherlock also composed music. There had been some nights with no music and Mycroft had assumed the boy was sleeping or possibly reading. But that assumption was proven wrong on the night he happened to be looking out the window in his room and saw Sherlock coming through the back garden and into the house, dressed like a beggar.

For some reason, he did not tell Sherlock that he had seen him.

One of the longest conversations they shared was on a day when Mycroft arrived home earlier than usual and encountered Sherlock in the parlour, reading something called _Richmond or Tales of a Bow Street Officer._ Mycroft went to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky. He had earned it, following a very troublesome day at Government House. He sat down opposite Sherlock, who was sprawled inelegantly on the sofa. “Unusual reading material,” Mycroft commented.

The low hum he received as a reply was, quite honestly, more than he had expected.

Mycroft stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “I had some dealings with the successors to the Bow Street runners when I was in London,” he said casually. “At Scotland Yard.”

There was a brief pause and then Sherlock glanced at him quickly. “What did they apprehend you for?” he asked, an unprecedented hint of humour in his voice.

Mycroft frowned at him, but Sherlock was looking at his book again. “They did not   
_apprehend_ me for anything, of course.” He paused, wondering how much he could reveal. “I happened to witness a crime one evening.” Well, ‘witness’ was an incomplete description, but it would do. That unpleasant encounter was the reason he had taken up the course in jujitsu that had saved his life on the ship. 

Sherlock looked up again. “The anonymous author in this book makes the officers sound highly skilled. Was that your experience with the ones at Scotland Yard?”

Considering how easily they had accepted the story Mycroft had given them, he had not been terribly impressed. He sipped some whisky. “I suppose they were competent,” he said.

“How reassuring,” Sherlock replied scathingly.

Mycroft wanted to ask him questions about why he was reading the book, why he had any interest at all in the subject of criminals or the police. But then, belatedly he was ashamed to admit, he remembered that Sherlock’s mother had been murdered. Probably it was best to let the subject go. So he just sat in the chair and finished the drink as Sherlock returned to his reading.

That evening, he gave Father the usual [discreetly edited] account of the day at Government House. When he had finished and Father had made his usual comments, most of which were critical, Mycroft rang for the port and poured them each a glass. It was strictly against medical advice for the old man, but neither of them was inclined to heed that warning, in the circumstance.

Mycroft savoured the first sip. “Father,” he said then, “tell me about Sherlock.”

There was a pause.

“An eternal nuisance,” was the eventual response. “Never behaves appropriately. No respect.” The old man ran out of breath.

“He seems quite clever,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Oh, clever...yes, I suppose he is.” Father hummed a bit, which was a new habit. Or a new symptom. Mycroft was unsure which. It was clear that the man’s mind had become rather...fragile. “But not...normal. I never told you...”

Mycroft sipped his port and waited for him to either catch his breath or retrieve his runaway thoughts, whichever was necessary. “What did you never tell me?” he asked finally.

“About his mother. My wife. Ananda.”

“I know that she vanished and was murdered. By her brother, whom I remember meeting as a boy. A very sad situation. Especially for Sherlock. And you, of course,” he added. 

“She spoilt the boy,” Father muttered.

Mycroft ignored that. “It took the police here years to solve the case, but finally they did. I read all about it in the newspapers.” If there were an unspoken chastisement that it was _only_ from the papers that he knew about events concerning his family, neither of them mentioned it.

Had there still been the energy or inclination to laugh, William Holmes might have done so. “The police? Those bumblers.” He swallowed port, with some of it dribbling down his chin. “They solved nothing. It was Sherlock.”

Mycroft stared at him.

What followed was an amazing and improbable story of how Sherlock was the one who had actually solved the mystery and revealed the killer. Haltingly, Father told him what the boy had done and then why, for political and personal reasons alike, Sherlock’s name was never mentioned in the official reports or the press.

For one of the few times in his life, Mycroft found himself entirely dumbstruck. Unbelievably, it seemed that hero of the narrative was his baby brother. Abruptly, he remembered his feelings of amazement when Sherlock was born. How from the first day, he had thought that the tiny being was quite remarkable. It seemed as if he had been correct.

He felt a sudden stab of regret for what he had lost on the very day he set off for England. What he had, in truth, thrown away.

Father was still rambling on regarding all the failings of his younger son, but Mycroft had stopped listening.

Instead, he thought about the Russian memorandum which had appeared on his desk that morning. It was easier to deal with the Tsar than with this dying old man or the the brother he did not know or understand at all.

*

2

It was not John’s first time in a whorehouse.

His three-month residency at the Birmingham Maternity Hospital had been intended to expand his knowledge of the female conditions of pregnancy and birth. And he felt confident that he had indeed learned much. Along the way, he had been befriended by a couple of others on the same course, namely Hayden and Moore, two brash young men from Yorkshire. From the beginning, they had dragged him along to various public houses, insisting that he try the ales on offer.

Not that John really objected. He very much enjoyed the camaraderie and sense of belonging. But he tried not to over-indulge in drink; memories of his father were too much present for him to pursue drunkenness with the enthusiasm of his friends. But on this particular night, following a day in which he had lost a patient in the most bloody and horrifying episode of his experience thus far, John found himself relishing the taste of the ale and with every pint his guilt grew lighter.

But, still, he had never intended to end up here. ‘Here’ being the sitting room of what apparently was considered in Birmingham a high-class brothel. The grimy red drapery, the cheap gold paint trying to pass as gilt, the cloying scent of perfume used to excess in a failed effort to cover less salubrious odours; none of it impressed John. He had been in more than one London brothel, real first-class places. Not as a customer, of course, but as a telegraph boy delivering messages. The women there, madams and whores alike, had always treated him with amused kindness, often giving him a sweet or a biscuit as he waited for the message to be read and possibly responded to.

The surroundings had been much nicer. Real velvet drapery, gold gilt here and there, the hint of good cigars and fine whisky. Sometimes one of the women would come into the foyer, pinch his cheek, and tell him that he was a heartbreaker. Whilst he had sometimes been embarrassed by the attention, John had never been ashamed to be there.

Sitting in this place, however, he felt uncomfortable. Several girls, who looked young and yet at the same time seemed worn down by life, were arranged on a pink divan, smiling at John and his two companions. Even still slightly drunk as he was, John could not help noticing that one of the girls had scars from smallpox and also that none of the flimsy garments they wore were very clean. Neither Hayden nor Moore seemed at all put off by the circumstances and John found himself swept along, until he found himself alone with one of the girls in a tiny room containing only a bed.

John was not ignorant on the subject of human copulation, of course. He was nearly a physician, for goodness sake. Not to mention that anyone who had grown up where he had, in the slums of London, where modesty or privacy were luxuries afforded a very few, knew very well what people got up to.

But this was different.

The woman [girl, really] who was sitting on the bed expectantly was not exciting him in the way he would have expected. He smiled faintly at her and wiped his palms on the front of his coat. She moved to lift the chemise, but he stopped her with a gesture. “No, thank you,” he said quickly. Then he reached into his pocket, took out several coins and set them on the bed. “Thank you,” he said again, before leaving the room,

There was no sign of of either Hayden or Moore, so John slipped out of the house and returned to his rooms.

The next day, when he encountered the fellows at a seminar, he only grinned and let them think what they wanted. Anyway, none of it mattered because of the just-arrived letter tucked carefully into his satchel. Sir Malcolm had used his influence to obtain a position for him at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London as soon as his Bachelor of Medicine degree was in hand.

So in three months, after completing a few more lectures in Edinburgh, John Watson would be returning to London, to St. Bartholomew’s, which seemed somehow quite right; most importantly, he was not going back as stinking pure finder collecting horse shit from the roads or as the eager lad with his shiny gold buttons delivering telegrams, but as a doctor. Three more months as a student, of fighting off the amorous attentions of the landlord’s daughter, and his life could truly begin.

Although he could not know it then, a year later, under different circumstances, John would first be with a woman. He was quietly relieved that all went well, although perhaps it had not been quite as satisfying as he had expected.

3

After hearing his father rail for years about the impossibility of dealing with the Germans, who tended towards unrelenting stubbornness, it seemed to Mycroft somehow ironic that on the day the old man died, he was stuck in a meeting with the German envoy. A meeting that he knew was going to be disappointing to both sides, although the envoy did not yet realise that fact.

But in the middle of the negotiations, a messenger arrived from the house, summoning him to come at once. He left immediately, but still too late, because by the time he arrived his father had taken his last breath alone, save for the doctor. Looking at the face of the dead man, Mycroft felt nothing, really, except perhaps a slight bit of guilt over the lack of any real emotion.

Once the immediate necessities had been taken care of, he went in search of his brother. Unsurprisingly, he found the boy in what had once been the tutor’s quarters, but which at some point had been fitted out as a laboratory for whatever Sherlock wanted to study. Which, more often than was really desirable, seemed to be how to blow things up.

At that moment, there seemed little risk, as Sherlock’s lean and gangly form was bent over his very expensive microscope. He did not raise his head when Mycroft entered the room. “Father is dead,” Mycroft said flatly; he was not inclined to sentimental pronouncements and even a short acquaintance with his brother was adequate to know that Sherlock was the same.

Sherlock lifted his head finally, but the fall of his unruly curls kept Mycroft from actually seeing his face. “I will need a new suit for the funeral,” was all he said. Despite the mess of his hair, Sherlock seemed to take great interest in his wardrobe. At least, when he wasn’t dressing like a sewer rat to prowl the streets of Calcutta.

Mycroft sighed. “I will summon the tailor for this afternoon. Make yourself available.”

He decided to accept the grunt as an acceptable response as Sherlock returned his attention to the microscope.

*

It was only a fortnight later when Mycroft realised that the situation was untenable.

He was spending every available hour attempting to consolidate his hold on power, amidst some continuing grumbles over his swift rise. But Mycroft knew that the powers in London supported everything he was doing. Even Day seemed to defer to him on occasion now.

With all of that going on, there was very little time left to deal with Sherlock. Who definitely needed to be dealt with. Mycroft wondered for how long the boy had been left to his own devices. Since his mother vanished? Had her indulgent behaviour been replaced by indifference and neglect? He rather thought that was the case. And now, given whatever he got up to in the damned laboratory, his constant upsetting of the servants and the fact that he had returned home from his nighttime excursions twice with a blackened eye and bloody nose, it was clearly necessary for Mycroft to act.

In reality, there was only one solution, but it took several days for Mycroft to convince himself that it actually _was_ the best thing for Sherlock and not just a convenience for himself.

It was during one of their rare dinners together that he broke the news.

“I have decided,” he began carefully, “that you would greatly benefit from one year at Eton before going to Cambridge. Father was shamefully neglectful of your education.”

Sherlock stopped toying with his food and straightened in the chair, indignation radiating from every pore. “I have educated myself,” he said indignantly. “I know more than anyone at Eton.”

Privately, Mycroft realised that there was some truth in that. “There are some things you do not know. Things beyond chemistry and crime and the violin. And one thing that you very clearly lack is discipline. Eton can instil that virtue in you.”

“Pah,” was the only response to that.

“If you intend to read chemistry at Cambridge, I believe you need this.” Mycroft did not say that he was unhappy to be separating himself from his brother again so soon after their reunion, which he sincerely was. But this was a logical decision, the best thing for both of them.

After a moment, Sherlock threw his serviette to the table and stood. “I hate you,” he said. Oddly, there was no anger in his voice, only a sense of resignation. He left the dining room.

Mycroft finished dinner alone.

4

Mycroft was ridiculous when he attempted to act as if he cared. As if there were any sentiment at all between them. The night before Sherlock was to embark for England, his brother insisted that they must dine together. They went to the Great Eastern Hotel. Sherlock had been there only once, years ago, when his mother took him there for a meal. She had chatted about the wedding breakfast that had taken place there. In the same room, in fact, where they had been that day and where Sherlock was now with Mycroft. 

Neither of them mentioned that.

While Sherlock picked at his chicken, Mycroft droned on about his own time at Eton. Although he was clearly trying to make it sound appealing, Sherlock could tell that he hated it. Finally, Mycroft gave up and ended his speech by admitting, “Of course, I was much happier at Cambridge.”

Sherlock smirked at that.

It was over the pudding that Mycroft grew more serious. “Your heritage is not obvious,” he said quietly. “Which is a lucky stroke for you.”

Sherlock was finishing his trifle. “What?” he said irritably. It was one of the few words he had said throughout the meal.

“You do not look Indian at all, really,” his brother said. “Take care not to let the truth become public knowledge. Your life will be much easier.”

Now he stared at Mycroft in disbelief. “I should live a lie? Am I meant to be ashamed of my mother?”

It was the first time he had seen Mycroft flustered, apparently at a loss for what to say.

Sherlock’s voice was icy as he continued. “Because my mother was not the perfect English woman that yours apparently was, am I a lesser person?”

Mycroft was not an excellent diplomat without reason, apparently; he pulled himself together quickly and even managed an expression of indignation. “I have said no such thing. Your mother was a fine woman, who always treated me well. I am only attempting to warn you that within some circles your mixed blood might make things difficult. You must, of course, live as you see fit.”

“As long as I do what you say. Like go to Eton.”

Instead of replying, Mycroft simply finished his trifle and soon after they were climbing into their waiting carriage.

Later, alone in his room, Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. At first glance, he was too pale to look Indian. But now that he was taking notice, his features did have a vaguely exotic cast to them. There was something alien in his cheekbones and his oddly coloured eyes.

Probably Mycroft was correct. He would undoubtedly be an anomaly at Eton. For many reasons.

Sherlock decided that he did not care.

*

Mycroft could not be dissuaded from accompanying him to the port.

For some reason, he was full of reminiscences, finding the memory of an infant Sherlock waving him off on his own voyage worth recounting. Sherlock mostly ignored him, torn between excitement and trepidation for the future. The ship looked huge and yet at the same time much too small to be out in the middle of the ocean. There was a great hubbub of people, luggage carts, barking dogs and screaming children, all mixing with the shouts of crewmen guiding cargo into the hold.

They watched the cart with Sherlock’s trunks being pushed onboard. That done, Mycroft took him to the gangplank and introduced him to the captain, a bearded man with intelligent eyes and lips that did not naturally fall into a smile. He promised Mycroft that the greatest care would be taken with his bother and then excused himself.

“You should go aboard, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “If you do not mind, I will not stay until departure. There is a meeting I must attend.”

“I didn’t want you here in the first place,” Sherlock replied. “Leave whenever you like.”

Mycroft very nearly seemed to dither, apparently torn between a handshake or an embrace. Happily, he decided on neither. “I will be following your progress closely,” he said. After waiting a moment, perhaps expecting a response which did not come, he gave a sharp nod, turned on his heel and walked back to the carriage.

Sherlock stood at the bottom of the gangplank, watching him go, and then kept watching until the carriage itself was lost in the maelstrom.

After another moment, Sherlock lifted his rucksack and walked up the gangplank.

*

Captain Marlowe’s care went only so far as enquiring after his well-being every day at breakfast, which suited Sherlock admirably and also insured that he showed up for the meal without fail. His appearance served to forestall any further contact from the man. By the second day, Sherlock had managed to alienate both the passengers and the crew members with whom he had come in contact. That included the timid cabin boy who brought him hot water every morning. Things improved dramatically, however, on the third day when he assured Joe that his secret [that the name was more properly Josephine] was not anything that Sherlock was interested in revealing. His hot water arrived promptly and hot indeed.

Given all of that, Sherlock was left very much to his own devices. He wandered the ship, slipping into places where he should not have been, overhearing various domestic disputes and a few shady business deals. Someone left an unsmoked cigar on a shelf and he cadged a match from Joe and smoked it. The experience unsettled his stomach, but he blamed that on the constant wave action and resolved to try tobacco again at his first opportunity.

It was on the fifth night, as most of the ship slept, with only the most necessary crew members on duty, that Sherlock found himself in a cubbyhole created by piles of crates in the hold. He took one of the small lamps hanging by the door and lit it with another of Joe’s matches and amused himself for a time by trying to guess the contents of some of the crates before reading the labels. Just as the game was starting to bore him, he heard the hatch open. He blew out the lamp and tucked himself back into the cubbyhole.

Another lamp was lit and he could hear the voices of two men. They sounded young and spoke softly, so Sherlock doubted that they were in the hold on official business. After a few moments, their words were replaced by heavy breathing and other sounds that he could not immediately identify. Sherlock silently scooted just a bit so that he could peek through a small gap between crates.

They both had their shirts off and were fumbling at their trousers, still making soft sounds. As Sherlock watched, two cocks appeared and they began to thrust against one another. The sounds grew harsher and hurried,

Sherlock never once thought of looking away.

It took only a couple of minutes before low groans came from the men almost simultaneously and they jerked together feverishly.

*

Once they had tided themselves up and left the hold, Sherlock also crept out, going directly to his cabin. A few minutes later, stretched out on the narrow bed, he contemplated his own prick, touching it tentatively. Then, as with the tobacco, he decided that the whole matter was best left for later.

His own body seemed to disagree, however, because when he woke the next morning, he was sticky with his own fluid.

Five days later, he arrived in England and set off for Eton.

**


	14. It Might Be Lonelier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years have passed. Lives have gotten more complicated. Paths cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks. I am posting this slightly earlier than usual, because I am so eager to share it with you all. I do hope that you enjoy reading it, because I very much enjoyed writing it. As always, please do let me know what you think.
> 
> Oh, and thanks for the good dental work wishes. So far, the worst has been avoided. Fingers crossed for the next visit.

It might be lonelier  
Without the Loneliness—-  
I am so accustomed to my fate.

-Dickinson, E.

1

Mycroft was sometimes bored.

He had, over the last four years, done such a good job of consolidating his power at Government House that things practically ran themselves. What did amuse him, occasionally, was that although everyone knew his name, no one actually realised the extent of his power. Which suited him perfectly, of course.

An occasional missive from Day offered some change to his routine, giving him the opportunity to play at espionage again, but those occasions were rare. At least the tasks he was now assigned meant haunting the corners of various Calcutta clubs and respectable residences rather than the dark alleyways of London.

But sometimes he brooded.

“Oh, dear, Mr Holmes, I do not believe that you have heard a word of what I’ve been saying!”

Probably, he realised belatedly, it would be best _not_ to brood whilst dining at the home of the Governor-General. Especially as he was clearly expected to socialise with the man’s pretty and not unintelligent daughter. She had either been advised by her father [or even more likely her rather simpering mother] that Mycroft Holmes was a very promising prospect. Or, because she _was_ far from stupid, perhaps she had decided that all on her own.

He tipped his head in rueful acknowledgment. “My most abject apologies, Lady Sarah,” he said smoothly. “I was rather caught up in my admiration of the lovely watercolour hanging above the sideboard.”

Inside knowledge was always so useful.

The young woman blushed prettily. “Oh, do you like it?”

“Very much. The subtle use of colour is striking.”

She gave a soft laugh. “You flatter my small talent, Mr Holmes.”

He pretended surprise. “You are the artist? I had no idea that the Governor-General had such an exceptional daughter.” As he spoke, Mycroft was very aware of her father watching them from the head of the table. Perhaps the flirtation had been his idea after all.

Mycroft was far from unpractised in the ritual, so he could anticipate the future quite easily. He and Lady Sarah would chat over the pudding course, separate while the men enjoyed their brandy and cigars in the library, and then reunite for no more than two dances once the music began. They might share a glass of champagne under the watchful eye of her parents. Within the week, he would be invited for tea with several others and then to a more intimate dinner with just the family and perhaps one other significant government official. There would be an art gallery opening and Lady Sarah would happen to have an extra ticket.

He would let it play out for perhaps a month, maybe a bit longer if she were particularly charming. Then would come the delicate process of disentanglement. The goal was always a gentle parting, of course. One in which the fault was entirely his, although most assuredly a fault that would only reflect well upon him. 

Dedication to duty was the most common explanation. Its advantages were, firstly, that it was absolutely true and, secondly, it was something to which not even a devoted father could object seriously. Especially not a father who also happened to be the Governor-General. He and Lady Sarah would still be civil when they met and perhaps share a few sad smiles across a room until the young woman fixed her eye on some more promising gentleman.

For now, he smiled and listened to her prattle on about her love of art. It was all tiresome, but he was dedicated to his duty.

*

Mycroft did not really go to the Bengal Club to socialise, because he spoke to more than enough people during his hours at Government House. Nor did he go to drink, because his own liquor cabinet was as well-supplied as the bar at the club and actually with a rather better quality of whisky and brandy.

He went to the club because he was expected to do so. It was where the men who ran their world gathered. Occasionally, and very much against his wishes, Mycroft found himself feeling a certain amount of sympathy for his father. Perhaps not all of his absences were for purely selfish reasons, but it remained true that at least Mycroft did not have a wife and family waiting for him to come home. He thought that was a good thing.

Ironically, the gathering place for the powerful was also a place where two men might have a quiet chat in a corner without giving rise to gossip or suspicion as to their motives. Quiet chats in corners were par for the course in the club. Sometimes, Mycroft mused about the benefits of a club in which all conversations were banned.

So it was that on a night in early May, shortly before he would be making the annual trek to Simla for the summer months, Mycroft held one such meeting with a man named Oscar Hawthorne. Purportedly, Hawthorne was a senior level, albeit insignificant, functionary at the Treasury making a auditing trip to India. He was that, of course, but more importantly, he was also an agent for the Committee and, because of Mycroft’s current position in the group, an agent of his as well.

The meeting was a result of recent troubling reports about increasing unrest in some rural areas of the country, unrest stirred up by native agitators. Mycroft was occasionally [usually when deep into his second brandy in the privacy of his own home] given to wonder how those in charge of the Empire expected the native population to react to being controlled by a queen so far away. Those were thoughts he would never express, of course. Frankly, he thought that too few people knew or understood history. Empires rose and empires fell. His primary mission in life was to assure that such a fall did not occur on his watch. Let history make of that what it would.

Because it was a pleasant evening, he and Hawthorne talked on the balcony, standing quite apart from the others out there, who were watching a fierce croquet match taking place on the lawn below. As was usual with conversations like this, Mycroft was left with the desire to be back in London, walking in the real corridors of power, instead of being so far from it all. Despite the power he wielded, sometimes he felt like a pawn on a chessboard, being controlled by unseen hands in Westminster.

After listening to Hawthorne for some time and as the croquet reached its end, Mycroft lead the way back inside; he ordered fresh drinks for them both and settled into his favourite isolated corner. It was time to introduce a new topic. “Mulberry seems convinced that it is nearly time for the Committee to become...more official,” he said casually.

“There are dangers in that,” Hawthorne pointed out. “Day is more hesitant.”

“There are always dangers,” Mycroft agreed. “But at a certain point, it becomes inevitable or our motives might well come into question.”

Hawthorne could not disagree with that, so he said nothing. They sipped whisky in silence for a moment.

When the man cleared his throat, Mycroft knew that a delicate topic was about to be broached. He waited with mild interest. “What do you hear of your brother?” Hawthorne asked in a tone of attempted nonchalance that was nearly successful.

Mycroft narrowed his gaze. “My contact at Cambridge assures me that his studies are progressing satisfactorily,” he said. One could set aside such things as [minor] explosions in the laboratory and discordant violin playing that kept others in the residence awake half the night. That sort of thing simply came with Sherlock and there was little to be gained by agonising over it.

“Indeed, indeed,” Hawthorne murmured. He busied himself with his pipe briefly.

Mycroft waited.

Hawthorne, once satisfied that he had Mycroft’s complete attention, finally spoke again. “It seems that he spends a good deal of time in London,” he said. “And most of that time, apparently, is passed in the dark corners of the city, amongst young men who would not be accepted into polite society.” He gave a humourless smile. “I suppose it is just the exuberance of youth.”

“No doubt,” Mycroft said. “We all had our youthful indulgences,” he added, although he could not remember any such things in his own past.

At the same time, he was cursing his reliance on a single elderly don who had tutored him in Philosophy, to report on Sherlock’s activities. His laziness on the subject might prove troublesome. He did not say as much to Hawthorne, of course. Instead, the topic of conversation turned to the latest scandal within Calcutta society, which, as usual, involved infidelity and revenge, Commonplace and boring.

But Mycroft’s thoughts remained on Sherlock.

*

2

Sherlock sometimes liked to think of himself as an alchemist, part of the fabled history of the first scientists at Cambridge. In the 16th century, those men were like explorers venturing into an unknown terrain in search of...something. Well, mainly cures for venereal diseases, if the early records were to be believed. But the important thing, Sherlock thought, was the sense of freedom that those early chemists must have had.

Now, he often had to sneak his way into a laboratory just to conduct a few of his important experiments. It was tiresome.

At the moment, he was glaring at the brass Graduating Bell Weights for no particular reason beyond the fact that they were there. His casual investigation into benzene had lead to an unfortunate fire which explained why he was banned from the laboratory. The ban had no effect, really, save for the time wasted executing his clandestine entry.

But his new idea of exploring Roscoe’s work in quantitative photochemistry was being hampered by his current inability to obtain chlorine.

Finally, irritated and bored, he exited the laboratory by the same route he had used to enter.

*

The next day Sherlock took his leather-bound journal and latest notes and went to sit on the Backs, looking at King’s. He was reading Graham on dialysis and the diffusion and effusion of gasses. Perhaps there was something there worth exploring.

But his restless mind refused to focus and finally he pulled out a copy of the Illustrated Police News and lost himself in the stories of foul murder and other sordid happenings. So caught up was he in the fascinating tale of a Dreadful Affray with a Hatchet that he did not even notice Trevor’s approach until the other student was standing there in front of him.

Things were complicated between himself and Victor Trevor.

Of course, Sherlock had never had anything even close to a friend before, so he could not really say whether or not all such relationships were so baroque. Sometimes, he just wanted to ask Trevor quite bluntly, “Are we friends?” But, to date, he had not found the courage to do so.

A part of him believed that it did not matter anyway.

Trevor dropped to the grass beside him, humming softly for a moment. Sherlock watched him, while pretending to still be reading. Trevor was the ideal image of the captain of the sculling team, revered by all for bringing victory against Oxford in the most recent race on the Thames. Tall, muscled, with bright auburn hair that gleamed in the sunlight. Sherlock admitted that the other boy was not especially clever, but that did not seem to count against him with the world. That fact was something of a puzzle to Sherlock, who had nothing _but_ his cleverness going for him.

Trevor shifted restlessly. “I am in the mood for a jaunt to London. Want to come along?”

“I have an important experiment in progress,” he lied. “It is a delicate time.”

Trevor laughed. Sometimes, his laughter sounded rather too much like that of the boys at Eton. A bit mean. The only time Sherlock had mentioned it, though, he was accused of having no sense of humour. “You and your damned experiments.”

Sherlock thought about telling him about what he wanted do once he managed to obtain the chlorine and the possibility of a fascinating result, but he knew that Trevor was always bored when he talked about things like that. It was hateful that he sometimes felt desperate not to bore Trevor.

That sense of desperation made him angry.

*

He gave in, of course, and went with Trevor to London. 

Actually, Sherlock went to the city frequently, but always alone. He prowled the streets and learned each one, every neighbourhood. Occasionally he encountered crime and often he found himself watching detectives from the Yard as they bumbled about. He had made the acquaintance of one detective, a man who seemed less stupid than the rest. Lestrade had been surprised, stunned in fact, the first time Sherlock gave him the solution to a crime. Only a simple break-in, but still.

This trip was going to be different though and Sherlock was not sure what would happen. In his mind, they would probably spend the day walking through a park or perhaps enjoying a public house and then having a meal somewhere new and different. Possibly Trevor had in mind to buy himself a new hat or pair of gloves. There were no hints given during the journey.

It was something of a surprise, therefore, to find himself in an opium den.

There were few times when Sherlock found himself not knowing what to say. “I’m not absolutely certain we should be here,” was what he finally came out with.

Trevor, however, seemed very comfortable; clearly it was not his first time in the place. He ignored Sherlock’s words except to snicker a bit. “Relax, clever boy. Have a little fun.” The smile was not especially nice.

Maybe this was what Trevor did with his other friends.

They settled into a curtained cubicle and Sherlock watched the Chinese man arrange things for him, showing him with gestures and a few garbled English words how to use the pipe. Trevor watched, still with that odd smile on his face.

So Sherlock took his first inhalation of the opium through the water pipe. 

Then, finally, Trevor grinned at him.

The last conscious thought he had was of how Mycroft, if he had somehow magically transported from Calcutta to London, would react if he just happened to walk by Mr Lee’s establishment, peek in and see his little brother.

Sherlock giggled at the idea.

*

Two months later, Trevor took him to visit the family country estate.

They rode every morning, swam in the pond every afternoon, and experimented with cocaine every evening in the rundown folly. Once or twice Sherlock thought that maybe Trevor was interested in experimenting with other things as well, but the moments always passed. Or perhaps there was never really a moment at all. Sherlock was not terribly sure that he would recognise one if there had been.

Sherlock spent some time wondering if he were sorry or relieved that nothing ever came of it.

But at the weekend, it all became a moot point anyway.

Mr Trevor arrived from London. He was a big, blustering, red-faced man who ran the family coffee importing company and fancied himself a brilliant businessman. Sherlock thought he was a fool, but he didn’t say so.

Trevor seemed eager to impress his father, first by giving him a detailed description of the boat race he’d captained to victory. When that topic had been exhausted, he began to talk about Sherlock. “Holmes here is something of a genius,” he said. 

The old man looked at Sherlock, who ducked his head, knowing that his cheeks were flushed. “I’m a chemist,” he mumbled.

Trevor snorted. “Oh, I’m not talking about your silly experiments.” He leant towards his father. “Old Holmes here can look at you and know your secrets. Everybody at King’s hates him.”

Mrs Trevor, a pale, quiet woman who clearly lived in the shadow of her loud husband, spoke for the first time. “Hush, Victor. What a thing to say.”

Her husband snorted. “A load of rubbish. No one can do that.” He spread his arms wide. “So what are my secrets, then?”

Sherlock did not want to say anything, but he received a painful kick to his shin from Trevor. Startled, he burst out with the first words that came to mind. “You haven’t quit the gambling as you promised your wife you had.”

Trevor only chuckled while his mother gasped.

And Sherlock _knew_ that he should shut up, but somehow the words kept coming. “Which explains the embezzlement, I expect. That and the pressures of supporting your mistress.”

Everything went a bit bad after that and Sherlock was never sure who said what to whom.

Except for the words Trevor said to him as Sherlock left the house, his hastily packed leather bag in hand.

“You freak,” he said. “Go to hell.”

Sherlock was back in Cambridge by the morning.

*

There were apparently no secrets from Mycroft Holmes.

The letter exposed Sherlock’s sins in a tidy list, not even seeming to accuse, but simply to render an accounting of all the ways in which he had fallen short of expectations.

Sherlock made a disdainful sound and tossed the letter into the paltry fire that did little to warm his draughty room. At least the pages flared briefly and satisfactorily. He wondered that his brother did not weary of writing these messages of chastisement. This one was the first to mention the cocaine, of course.

It was not, however, the first letter to go into the fire that evening. The other was from his tutor, pointing out that, unless his attendance and performance improved dramatically, he risked being rusticated.

It was all very tedious.

He spent the remainder of the night finishing all four overdue essays and then documenting all of his latest experiments. Just before dawn he delivered the packet of completed work to his tutor’s office. It would be enough to keep everyone happy until it was time for his final oral exams. He was half-tempted to include a note reminding the man to be sure to let Mycroft know that all was well.

It was good to know that for the next month, at least, he would be left alone.

He packed a small bag and left for London.

*

It only took three days of hanging about Scotland Yard for Lestrade to finally let him in on a case. The detective looked even more distressed than usual, which meant that the case was beyond the dubious abilities of his officers.

Lestrade took him across the road to a smokey pub favoured by Yarders. When they each had an ale in front of them, Lestrade began.

“The victim is one David Phelps, known as Davy to his friends, few as they seem to be. Age fifteen, an orphan, under the care of an aged great-aunt. Her primary contribution to that care is having shipped him off to boarding school and kept him there. At the time of his death, he was a student at St. Giles School in Richmond.”

Sherlock frowned into his drink. A lonely boy stuck in the hell of an unfriendly school. Dull. He probably hung himself in his wardrobe, which was perfectly possible and sometimes seemed a logical choice. He did not say that to Lestrade, of course.

“It was apparently a hunting accident,” Lestrade said, sounding less than absolutely convinced.

“A _hunting accident_?” Sherlock repeated sceptically.

“I know, right?” They each took a swallow of ale.

Sherlock wished for a bit of his 7% solution instead of the weak ale. It had taken hours of lab work and experimentation to find the perfect blend to stimulate his brain satisfactorily and the ale was no substitute.

Lestrade was glowering into his own drink. “The lad was taken hunting, apparently for rabbits, two nights ago.”

“Taken?”

“By Stephen Hull, a teacher at the school.”

“Is that common practice at St. Giles?”

“Not as far as I could find out. Hull and the boy seemed friendly, though.”

“What does Hull teach?”

“Art,” Lestrade replied, making it sound like an unlikely and disreputable subject to be teaching young boys. “David liked to draw.”

Sherlock let his gaze flicker around the room while he thought. “Is there any suggestion of something...improper between them?”

For a man who dealt with the scum of society, Lestrade was always a bit prim as regarded some things. He looked uncomfortable at Sherlock’s question. “Oh, I wouldn’t think so. Hull has a wife.”

“Hmm...” Sherlock leaned back in the chair, resting his chin on his pyramided fingers. “Not entirely sure that makes a difference.” After a few moments, he straightened. “I want to see the body. Then I want to talk to Hull. Then his wife. And his banker.”

Lestrade looked puzzled, but that was fairly normal, so Sherlock just drained his glass and stood. “Now, if you don’t mind, Lestrade.” 

It was the banker who put it all together.

Hull was deeply in debt, mostly due to a wife with expensive tastes. A teacher of art at a minor boys’ school was never going to be able to please her and he feared losing her. More, apparently, than he feared the scaffold.

They wrapped everything up by visiting three insurance companies and finding three policies taken out on Davey Phelps’s life. Payments to be made to one Bert Morton, a name which was rather easily revealed to be an alias for Hull himself.

Sherlock commented to Lestrade, as they parted ways, that it would have been more interesting if the case had been about sex instead of money.

The man looked shocked.

*

The hotel room was sordid and smelt of boiled cabbage for reasons he didn’t really understand. Lestrade had not come up with another case and did not seem likely to do so any time soon, as when he had come round a week earlier, he had not been best pleased to find Sherlock rather the worse off.

They had words.

Since his calculations were always perfect, Sherlock could only assume something had gone awry with the packet of cocaine. Thus explaining the unfortunate condition in which Lestrade had found him.

So now Sherlock only left the room for an occasional cup of tea and sometimes a sandwich at the cheap cafe around the corner or to buy more cocaine by Blackfriars Bridge. His money was running out very quickly, but that was not a concern. In three days, he would use his return ticket to Cambridge for the oral exams and then...well, then the world would be his. Things might be a bit tight until he came into his inheritance, but he would manage.

Especially once he was devoting all his time and energy to his Consulting Detective Agency.

He was on his way back from a brief visit to Blackfriars Bridge and thinking so deeply about all of those things that he did not even notice the three men until they had him surrounded. His first thought was that they were some of Mycroft’s minions, sent to snatch him off the street and do...something with him. Bore him to death, probably.

But with the first punch, that notion was gone.

Mycroft might do many things, but sending men to beat his baby brother into the pavement was definitely not one of them. He was fairly certain.

_Trevor_ was his next thought.

And then he felt a flash of self-hatred at the realisation that he had ever even considered some kind of an attachment with a person who would seek revenge like this.

Apparently, they didn’t want to actually kill him, though, because finally they stopped the beating and just left him alone. Sherlock tried to push himself up, but everything hurt and he could feel hot tears coursing down his face. Helplessly, he curled into himself. Slowly, one hand crept into the pocket of his coat and pulled out the small package he’d just purchased at Blackfriars Bridge. Somehow, his trembling, bloody hands managed to rip it open.

He brought the powder to his face and inhaled as deeply as he could.

Everything, including the pain, faded as a curtain of blackness descended.

*

3

It was his last night at Saint Bartholomew’s. In the morning, he was bound for Newley to finish his exams and then, all being well, he would be at the service of Her Majesty’s Forces. Finally.

Not that he had been unhappy at Barts.

The work was very challenging and equally underpaid, but that did not matter as long as he had the stipend from Sir Malcolm, small as it was. John was never extravagant, so he managed.

But then, suddenly and unexpectedly, Sir Malcolm died. A nephew inherited and almost immediately had his agent notify John that no more payments would be made to him or any of the other charities the old man had supported. John bristled a bit at the tone of the word ‘charities’, but in the end he just nodded and let it be.

It was rapidly clear that he could not go on as he had been, so the memory of his childhood dream returned. An old soldier in the park and the promise of adventure in faraway places. Now, of course, he would not be an ordinary soldier, but instead provide medical care to the forces.

He was trying to keep busy and not think too much about the future while working this final shift, so when he was summoned to attend a man found badly beaten in an alleyway, John headed towards the ward eagerly. When he arrived, the patient was raising a fuss, bloody and battered as he was, yelling and flailing at everyone within reach.

One of the trainees gave John a look. “Off his head,” he said. “The constable who found him said he had what looked like cocaine on his hands.” 

John knew the signs of violence caused by too much alcohol and other substances, both from his training and personal experience. He stood there for a moment, still watching the young man thrash and shout. Beneath the blood and dirt, his face was pale and his filthy curls were matted. John started to move closer, but then Sister Joan appeared and grabbed his arm. 

“Dr Watson,” she said urgently, “a woman is bleeding to death Looks like an attempted abortion.”

The trainee stepped forward. “I can handle this, sir,” he said.

John took a last look at the young man and then turned to follow Sister Joan.

*

It was four hours later before John managed to slip outside for a breath of air and to fill his pipe. The poor woman had died under his hands and the husband had shouted a bit. “What am I meant to do on my own with five kiddies?” he’d asked.

No one had an answer.

It was all so sad and sordid and the whole night had been far too reminiscent of the past, making John more than ready to escape it all and take up his military duties.

John went to his regular dark corner behind the hospital, where he could enjoy his pipe and not think too much.

As he leant against the building, some movement at a first floor window caught his attention. Bemused, he watched as the window was pushed open and a slender figure climbed out onto the ledge. After a moment, the escapee [clearly the young man from earlier, as there was no mistaking those curls] grabbed the drainpipe and carefully slid down until he was close enough to the ground to drop the rest of the way.

John waited to see if his services would be required, but after a moment the young man stood and, limping only slightly, disappeared into the night.

John gave a hollow laugh, finished his pipe and went back inside to work his last hour at St Bartholomew’s.

**


	15. Start At Once To Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is discontented, John is off to adventure, and Sherlock solves some cases. But no one thanks him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings to all. Tried to think of something clever to say here, but came up with nothing. Will say that I hope you are continuing to enjoy this tale.

If we really want to live,  
We’d better start at once to try.  
If we don’t it doesn’t matter,  
But we better start to die.

-Auden, W.H.

1

The morning appointment went rather poorly.

The mistake was entirely his, of course. Mycroft had invested a bit of hope into his meeting with the Downing Street functionary and that proved to be his downfall. Having hope, he knew all too well, was a futile exercise, the desperate last resort of the weak. “Do not hope something happens, make it happen,” was what Father used to say.

For all the man’s faults and they were numerous, as well as unforgivable, he did on occasion have some wisdom to offer.

But despite that, Mycroft had still gone into the meeting with a measure of hope. Sometimes he disappointed himself.

Wilkerson seemed a competent man, if a bit dull and apparently put slightly off his stride by making his first visit to a far-flung corner of the Empire. The man had never even been to the Continent before, so it was understandable that being plunged into the maelstrom that was Calcutta had discommoded him so. Frankly, Mycroft found him slightly annoying. But clearly he had the ear of the PM and through him the ear of Victoria Regina herself, so the opportunity could not be squandered. Still, a certain amount of delicacy was called for.

With that thought in mind, Mycroft waited until the tea had been served and some light conversation about what the man should see whilst in India had been exchanged before bringing up his topic. “I wonder,” he said smoothly, “if there is any thought of having me returned to London?” He gave a self-deprecating little chuckle. “One does rather yearn for the city.”

He did not mention that a large part of his yearning was simply to leave Calcutta behind, to put the place firmly into the past where it belonged. His obligations to a dead father had been satisfied.

Wilkerson eyed the very last biscuit on the silver tray, but then only added one more sugar lump to his tea instead, stirring slowly. The smile he gave Mycroft was patented and government issued. “Oh, Mr Holmes, everyone is very pleased with how you are doing out here. You are playing such an important role.”

“Playing a role?” For some reason Wilkerson’s choice of words rankled a bit. Probably there was no hidden meaning behind the trite phrase, but Mycroft could not help feeling more than a bit offended. He said nothing more, but instead picked up the last biscuit and took a bite.

Wilkerson studied him for a moment, clearly tempted to just ignore what he’d said, but then he changed his mind. “Both the prime minister and Her Majesty are quite satisfied with the work you are doing.”

“Hmm,” was Mycroft’s only response to that. He finished the biscuit and then used the serviette to delicately remove a few crumbs from his upper lip.

“I might add,” Wilkerson said, lowering his voice, although they were quite alone in the room, “that your fellow...club members also speak very highly of you.”

“My fellow club members?” Mycroft asked, slightly bewildered. He no longer had any London club affiliations. Then, feeling rather stupid, he realised what Wilkerson was talking about. The realisation confirmed something that had been a vague suspicion from the moment he shook hands with Wilkerson. He felt another jab of irritation that neither Day nor Mulberry had alerted him in advance that Wilkerson was on the Committee. For just a fleeting moment, he missed the days of secret code words.

Even with other Committee members, it was always a question of how much information one should claim to possess. “I understand that the effort to move the organisation into official circles is progressing satisfactorily?” 

Wilkerson would know, of course, that Mycroft had been on the inside almost from the beginning of the movement to establish an efficient espionage arm of the government. However, Mycroft also wanted him to know that just because he was now being held captive in India, far away from the corridors of power, did not mean that he was impotent in those matters that counted.

“Yes,” Wilkerson said. “Before the year is out we expect that there might even be a royal imprimatur for us.”

“I should be there,” Mycroft spit out, for once letting his frustration escape.

“Patience, Holmes,” Wilkerson replied. 

That was extremely patronising, but Mycroft let it pass without comment.

The news that Her Majesty might soon acknowledge the importance of what they were doing pleased him, but that was the only real positive to come out of the meeting. Finally, he sent Wilkerson off to begin whatever sneaking about he was going to do around Government House and beyond. If he had struck the other man as being somewhat disgruntled over his current status, that was fine. And, if Wilkerson carried that information back to London, all the better.

*

It was quite late that night before Mycroft was able to escape his duties. He was too weary to even think about going to the Bengal Club, so instead he poured himself a large whisky and relaxed in his own library.

His copies of the London newspapers had been piling up for a bit too long, so he began to work his way through the collected issues. The news on the pages was old, but for the important things at least, no less relevant to him.

Mycroft’s method of reading a newspaper never varied. He started at the front page and worked his way through an entire issue, not skipping even the most trivial of stories and paying attention as well to the advertisements and personal columns. And, irritating as it was, he also forced himself to at least skim the sporting news.

He was reading about a rather sordid crime, the murder of a wealthy old banker by his avaricious nephew, when one paragraph made him straighten in the chair.

_...despite the denials of a spokesman for Scotland Yard, your determined correspondent has confirmed that the officer in charge of the case, one Inspector Lestrade, was aided by the work of a Mr S. Holmes. Further enquiries have not shed any light on just who the man Holmes is or why he was involved..._

Mycroft read the story again. Then he sighed, finished off his whisky in one quick swallow and tossed the paper aside irritably. Abruptly, he remembered the tale Father had told him about Sherlock’s experience in solving the mystery of his own mother’s disappearance and death. And no matter how noble the deed, how brilliant Sherlock’s work had been, the case had caused political havoc that took far too many delicate negotiations to settle. In fact, Mycroft was certain that the case still reverberated in some quarters

Clearly, his brother might well become a problem if he continued to play at being a detective or whatever the hell he was doing in London.

At the same time...well, it was also possible that his brother might prove to be rather useful as well.

Mycroft remained in his chair for quite some time, indulging in another whisky and considering the subject of Sherlock Holmes, the detective.

2

There was so much to do.

John Watson did not have time to worry overmuch about the fact that he was about to embark upon a voyage that would likely deliver him to six years of duty in India. It was a journey that promised the excitement of foreign places and the possibility of adventure. That was all a part of why he had signed on in the first place, right? Well, all of that, yes, and also the not insignificant fact of his penury. Honestly, he had almost given up any thought of serving in distant lands, as he passed his days examining recruits to determine if they were fit for service.

Often, he missed the hurly-burly of St. Bartholomews, never knowing what might come through the door, what challenge would confront him. For too long, now, it had been weak lungs, flat feet and venereal diseases. But, at long last, his orders had come through.

Although, as a physician, he did not hold any official rank in the army, he did enjoy many of the advantages of being an officer, such as choice of quarters and a higher rate to pay for those lodgings and servants. There was even a guaranteed allowance in the event of injury in combat.

All in all, John was content with the path he had chosen.

Very quickly, it seemed, there were only three days remaining before his scheduled departure. Rumour had it that although India was still the putative destination, they would only pause there briefly before carrying on to Burma. The ins and outs of what was happening in Burma remained vague to John.

He tried to find out the truth of the matter by querying the major, James Sholto, one night over a pint. 

John privately admitted that he had found Sholto of interest ever since their first meeting. Blunt almost to the point of rudeness, earthy without being boorish and if reports of his past exploits were anything to go by, courageous. Further and shamefully, John recognised that there was also something...appealing about Sholto’s sturdy body and even the battle scars on his face.

Those thoughts were best kept to the darkest hours of the night and the even darker corners of his own soul. In the light of day, he always comported himself with gallant courtesy towards the pretty daughters of the regiment. He was a pleasant dance partner and an engaging dinner companion. To his shame, he barely regretted at all thinking that given more time before his departure, he might even become affianced to one of the young lovelies. That would have been the respectable thing to do. The safe thing. There were several of the women that he felt sure would have assented.

But he did not ask, instead continuing to flirt at the parties, but never going beyond the bounds of a gentleman. When that palled, he would go to have an occasional drink with Major Sholto. Respectable, if not entirely safe.

That night in the pub, he put questions to the major about their destination.  
Sholto only smiled fleetingly. “You are a most inquisitive young man, Watson,” he said.

“I always have been,” John admitted. “My curiosity is part of what has gotten me here.” He feared for a moment that Sholto would ask him for details of his early life, but the other man just nodded.

Still, though, he would not be drawn to speak about their journey or destination, beyond some vague words about looking forward to seeing India again. There were stories that claimed he had an attachment in Calcutta.

John sometimes wondered about that attachment.

*

John spent his last night before the voyage alone, just walking around the city, wondering if he would ever see London again. During his walk, he revisited places that had been significant in his life. The empty patch of ground that once held the hovel where his unhappy family had lived. The telegraph office, where he stood on the pavement and watched an eager lad in his tidy uniform with its bright gold buttons run off, a telegram clutched in his hand. The park bench where he had once talked with an old soldier. St Barts, where he had finally realised that he, John Hamish Watson, was a damned good doctor. He even went to bid farewell to old King Henry, who had seen him through some very rough days.

Much of his stroll had been a bit melancholy, but as he walked away from the hospital, he smiled to himself, remembering the night he had watched the young man with a head of curls climb down the drainpipe and make his escape. He hoped the lad was all right.

At last, he ended up at Westminster Bridge, staring down into the dark and murky water. He supposed it was a good thing that, if the worst happened, there would be no one left behind to mourn. No old mother to grieve or fresh-faced fiancé to weep. And while that was probably for the best, it still made him a bit sad.

Everyone ought to be mourned, he thought.

Finally, he turned away from the water and headed back towards his lodging.

3

Sherlock’s rooms on Montague Street were rundown and his relationship with the landlord was tenuous at best. Probably the most recent explosion and the resulting [very] small fire had something to do with that, but basically the man was a fool who did not understand or appreciate scientific enquiry. One day, when he had the time, Sherlock intended to search out a crime to be laid at Mr Cousin’s feet. He had to be up to something nefarious.

These days, Sherlock was mostly just waiting for the expected letter of chastisement from Calcutta. Mycroft was certainly aware by now that Sherlock had not taken his final exams and therefore had no degree. No First. He had genuinely intended to take the exams, but things rather fell apart at the last minute. The attack in the alley. The pain from the beating. The visit to the opium den so that he could forget the pain and humiliation.

Anyway, he never made it back to Cambridge.

But it was fine, because now he was a Consulting Detective and had no need of a fancy Cambridge degree. Only the Work mattered.

Well, the Work and his indulgences.

Cocaine when it was available. Opium sometimes.

It was all in aid of his brain, of course. Simply put, the cocaine sparked connections in his thoughts, allowing him to see a fuller picture, whether he were conducting an experiment in the laboratory or standing at a crime scene trying to convince the thick-headed oafs from Scotland Yard to take him seriously. Even after he solved the case of the murdered old miser, they still seemed to see him as nothing more than some freakish circus act.

Sherlock frowned fiercely at the people passing on the pavement below his window. Many of them were no doubt on their way to the British Museum. He himself spent a great deal of time there, making use of his reader’s card whilst enjoying the fact that he had used his brother’s name to obtain the card easily. He also liked to wander the exhibits, learning all he could about the odd items on display. Collecting miscellaneous facts as he had once collected butterflies, organising and categorising all those facts, none of which seemed relevant.

Until they were.

Connections.

Like the Iron Age knife he had once seen and studied in the museum, taking particular note of the edge, imagining the marks the blade would make in human flesh.

Irrelevant.

Until a dead woman turned up at Lisson Grove.

Sherlock had only managed a most cursory examination of the body before the idiots from the Yard chased him away, but it was enough because of the connections. The chief idiot, Lestrade, refused to listen to his quickly rattled off explanation of events. About an angry mistress, a jealous rich wife and the man who would go to any lengths to keep the truth hidden, even to killing the mistress to keep her from confronting the wife. The man who was an archaeologist and the stab wounds made by the distinctive edge of an Iron Age blade. Random facts.

It all turned out to be true, of course, although no one in the police force ever admitted that Sherlock had been absolutely right. Not even a single ‘thank you’  
had been forthcoming.

Later, Sherlock would wonder if he might have been taken more seriously had the conversation with Lestrade about the case not taken place in an opium den. Just bad luck that the Inspector had turned up to arrest a petty thief who was sleeping next to Sherlock.

*

Sherlock’s favourite place in London was Soho at night.

A babble of languages, nightclubs and cafes drawing a bohemian mix of wealthy young people and impecunious writers and artists. Smells of foods from around the Empire and beyond. Doormen carrying sharp blades and oily salesmen peddling anything, legal or not, that one might be in search of. Immoral women loitering on street corners and young boys running definitely shady dice games in the shadows.

It was all delightful to observe and Sherlock loved it. The chaos sometimes put him in mind of the worst [or best] bits of Calcutta that he used to roam after sneaking out of the house. When he was in the midst of the tumult his mind did not need either the stimulus of cocaine or the lassitude of opium. Some of his best ideas came to him as he manoeuvred his way through the crowds.

This night, he heard a voice behind him.

“Hey, ‘olmes!”

Sherlock stopped and turned around. The lad approached him quickly, grinning broadly and preening like a peacock in a bright yellow coat that was offensive to look upon. “Sully,” Sherlock murmured. “How are you these days?”

The boy had been one of his street gang, children most often homeless, living a rough and tumble life in the city. He cultivated them, doling out a pence whenever he could, which was often enough to gain their good will.

Sully had vanished some weeks ago, but now here he was again. Wearing a dreadful yellow coat. “Things is good. I got a regular place with Uncle Melvin.”

Melvin Kerr was no one’s uncle, as far as Sherlock knew, but that was how he was known in Soho. His fingers were in many pies, none of which were quite within the law. Young men like Sully did all the legwork and to amuse himself, Sherlock sometimes compared them to the minions who worked for his brother. 

“Well, congratulations, Sully. I am glad you are flourishing.” He could tell that Sully was waiting for something more and sighed. “And that is a dashing coat.”

Sully proudly smoothed the front of the appalling garment. “Uncle Melvin says you gotta dress proper to succeed.”

“He is quite right.”

Before they parted ways, Sherlock cadged a cigarette from Sully.

*

The stranger was waiting on the pavement in front of the house on Montague Street when Sherlock approached home close to dawn. Fleetingly, he had hopes that perhaps the man was one of those rare creatures, an actual client. But as soon as he got closer, that hope vanished. This man was definitely Official.

Sherlock did not speak and neither did the stranger, as he simply followed Sherlock up the stairs and into what the landlord called a sitting room, although more than two people trying to sit in it at a time would feel severely crowded. Neither of them sat.

The man looked around the room, his disdain obvious. Sherlock leant against the tiny mantle and glared at him. “What does Mycroft want?” he asked icily.

The minion tried not to look even a little bit impressed, but failed.

Sherlock sneered at him. Even his odious brother couldn’t get good help, apparently.

“Mr Holmes feels that you might—-possibly—-be useful in a small matter involving some purloined papers. Papers of vital importance to the Empire.”

“Perhaps the Empire should have taken better care of them in that case,” Sherlock pointed out lightly.

The man finally sat, after giving the chair an appropriately dubious look. He opened his attaché case, took out a thick file and began to talk.

In the end, Sherlock took the case. Only because of the promised payment, of course, not out of any burning desire to save the Empire. And most certainly not because Mycroft was asking.

*

The puzzle actually turned out to be a tidy little adventure, involving a hapless government clerk, a greedy brother-in-law and a French spy working at an exclusive brothel, where Sherlock got to play the part of a Russian duke. He enjoyed himself immensely.

The chase ended in Southampton, where Sherlock turned over the papers, the brother-in-law and the spy to Mycroft’s men and received his quite welcomed cheque. There were still a couple of hours to wait before his train back to London, so he walked back to the docks and leant against the railing, staring out at the water.

A large ship was just gliding away from the port. The deck was crowded with soldiers bound for god knew where, possibly to die or to kill. It seemed to Sherlock a melancholy sight, although he was not sure why. Some of the men onboard began to wave at the small group of spectators watching their departure.

For some reason, Sherlock lifted one hand in a gesture of farewell. He stayed there to watch until the ship was just a dot on the horizon.

In the end, he had to run to catch his train.

**


	16. There Is Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft watches. Sherlock should avoid dark alleys. John is not done with darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks. Our boys are still trying to find their respective paths. I hope that you are enjoying their journeys, which continue to bring them closer.
> 
> I always love hearing your thoughts.

As soon as there is life, there   
is danger.

-Emerson, R.W.

1

Mycroft contemplated his breakfast. It was Wednesday, so that meant kedgeree, which he always looked forward to. But he found himself a bit...bored with it. Bored with everything, actually. He sighed and began to eat it anyway, because he did, in fact, love kedgeree.

“If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you look a bit peaked.” 

He looked up at Simmons. The former master-sergeant had been his valet since soon after father died. The man had come highly recommended and was, indeed, fit to purpose. Mycroft rarely needed assistance in dressing, save when a formal occasion was in the offing, but Simmons made sure that his clothing was always in excellent condition. Because Mycroft disliked having too many people around, his valet served as a butler when required, which meant he also managed the small number of servants in the household.

Unsurprisingly, given his military past, he was an excellent shot and additionally was skilled in several of the martial arts. Just the bulk of his body was intimidating to anyone who might contemplate violence against his employer. Last, but far from least, he occasionally provided an excellent fencing opponent, so that Mycroft could keep his skills sharp.

Mycroft took another bite of the kedgeree, chewed slowly and swallowed. “Frankly, Simmons,” he said then, “I feel a bit peaked.”

“You work too much, sir.”

There was no real argument he could make to that, so Mycroft did not attempt any. Instead, after some thought, he asked, “Is there anything on for Saturday?”

“No, sir.”

Mycroft smiled. He knew just what he wanted to do.

*

Simmons had, as usual, arranged everything perfectly, so very early on Saturday they were out of the city in the lightweight and speedy red Brougham, with the valet expertly handling the reins. Mycroft watched the scenery pass by for a time and then opened his birding journal. It had been months since he’d last had the opportunity to pursue his hobby and, even then, he had only ventured as far as one of the parks within the city itself.

Today would be much more pleasant. He could be alone, save for Simmons, of course, but the other man knew to linger by the carriage and leave Mycroft unbothered.

Placed on the seat next to him was a carefully packed wicker basket for luncheon.

Mycroft was already feeling more relaxed, even before they arrived at the grassy area surrounded by trees. With no further conversation necessary, Mycroft exited the carriage, taking his journal, binoculars and his copy of _Birds of India_ by Thomas Caverhill Jerdon, ready to search for a suitable spot for observation. A clearing of the throat by Simmons reminded him to reach back into the carriage and take his brolly as well.

Very soon, he was settled comfortably on a log, binoculars in hand.

As often happened, while his eyes searched the landscape avidly, his mind began to wander.

A minor dust-up with the French that had the possibility of turning into something more.

A high-level functionary who was having an affair with the daughter of Russian diplomat. That diplomat was threatening a duel.

Westminster was being stingy with needed funds.

The Committee was quietly accumulating more power,

And what was he going to do about Sherlock?

Whilst all those thoughts niggled at his mind, Mycroft saw and made notes on a Blue-throated Barbet and a Bronze-winged Jacana.

Mycroft understood that Sherlock was entitled to live his own life, within bounds, of course. But sometimes he feared that Sherlock was either determined to ignore those bounds or perhaps was not even aware of their existence.

He remembered what people here had called his brother. _Enfant Sauvage._

The wild child.

It had been hinted by others that perhaps it would be best to simply sever the connection and let Sherlock do as he wanted. And Mycroft knew that he had it within his power to do just that. It would take only a little creative legal sleight of hand and a signature.

Mycroft paused in his thoughts long enough to jot down some notes on the lovely vivid blue and turquoise Indian Roller he had just seen.

Yes, he could do that, let his brother go and no doubt life would be easier. But Mycroft knew that he was not going to take that road. He had already abandoned the boy [young man, now] once and he would not do so again. He would just have to balance his concern for Sherlock with his determination to continue his own rise within the government.

It had not escaped his notice, of course, that Sherlock was very good at what he seemed determined to do with his life. Already he had proved himself to be useful on more than one occasion. It would be rather foolish not to make use of the distinct advantage of having a clever brother.

With that, Mycroft closed his journal. It was time for luncheon.

2

A conflict that existed for only a fortnight barely even qualified as a war, really.

John contemplated that truth from his hospital bed, at least during those few moments when the pain or the fever or the laudanum had not fogged his mind so badly that rational thought was impossible.

Possibly he should pen one of those military memoirs that the public seemed to love. He already had a title: John Watson’s Short War.

The regiment had barely paused in India, before moving on to Burma, just as the rumours had predicted. After the monotony of the voyage from England, John found that he did not mind the idea of battle. In fact, he rather relished the edge of humming anticipation that the troops seemed to be feeling.

In truth, not all of the excitement _he_ felt was down to the threat [promise?] of combat. Reluctant as he was to admit it, even to himself, John was not ignorant of his own nature. Although he was no stranger to the pleasures of a woman’s body, the soft, warm, secret places that offered solace and tender relief, John was also aware that his...passion and his interest were also stirred, on occasion, by the male form. The hard edges and the feeling of equality between two men stirred him in a different way. A way that was dangerous and mad and which could lead to disaster.

His experience in that area was so limited as to be, practically, non-existent. But he had an imagination and the alleyways down which that roamed were, he felt, no one’s business but his own.

He had accepted from the beginning that James Sholto was a fascinating man, an enigma, the type of puzzle that had always drawn John like a moth to the flame.

Shifting a bit on the lumpy cot [which reminded him far too much of the pallet from his childhood] John aimed a bitter half-smile at a passing orderly. Everyone knew what happened to the unfortunate moth in that scenario. That damned flame was always going to consume John as well. Maybe a bloody bullet through the shoulder was meant as a warning. An emphatic message to cease travelling the path that lead to sin and destruction.

The wages of sin...

John closed his eyes to thwart the threatening tears and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

Those wages, in the end, had not been paid by him.

It had not seemed so deadly, in the beginning.

John had known from the first time he met Sholto that the man was a fascinating figure. Duty threw them together and what seemed a natural affinity emerged very quickly. Whilst still in England, after a day’s work, the two men would sometimes go for a drink or two. There were a few shared confidences and a somewhat similar view of life’s absurdities.

The voyage from England meant taking exercise on the crowded deck or standing at the railing for a pipe before bed; the time they spent together seemed to deepen the connection between them. They were, John thought, friends now and he was happy with that. Although John might have thought of more, might have dreamed of more, he would never have spoken aloud of those things. Even if he sometimes thought that perhaps, just perhaps, Sholto would not have been outraged or disgusted.

All moot now.

John already knew that his time in the forces was finished. The surgeon had been blunt about the damage done to his shoulder and about the unexplained limp that had developed after the incident. The news barely made a dent in his thoughts.

What he knew for certain was that it should have been him dead in the Burma mud.

Not James Sholto.

The skirmish hit unexpectedly. He immediately went from physician to soldier, his eyes seeking Sholto, looking for leadership. Then, just for a moment, Sholto’s gaze met his and John thought he saw...something there.

The headshot meant instant death, of course. The sturdy, muscled body dropped to the mud like a marionette with its strings suddenly severed.

Instinct drove John from his sheltered spot, towards the dead man, and that was when his own wound occurred. Half-conscious from the pain and shock, his blood draining much too quickly, the last thing John saw before losing consciousness was Sholto’s body.

The nightmares began immediately and John knew, feared, that they would stay with him forever. The dreams were a terrifying mix of death and passion, of regrets and fear.

The orderly returned, bringing John a tin cup filled with strong tea.

His first impulse was to snap at the man to go the hell away, but, instead, he just nodded his thanks and struggled to sit up to drink the tea.

Before he had emptied the cup, Holtz, the surgeon appeared. “I believe you are well enough for the voyage home,” he said in that impersonal and hurried tone surgeons so often used. “Passage has been arranged for next week.”

“And what happens then?” John asked, not even trying to keep the bitterness from his voice and hoping, at least, that it masked the fear.

Holtz’s smile was as impersonal as his words. “That is up to you, Watson. I expect you will pull yourself together soon enough.”

John watched the man walk away.

The orderly did not ask why the tin cup was across the room, resting on the floor in a small puddle of cold tea.

*

3

One day, Sherlock mused wistfully, he would have enough interesting cases from the ever-hapless Lestrade to keep him busy or, even better, from private clients who would bring him not-boring puzzles to solve. When he had interesting work, challenging mysteries, he had no need for the 7% solution or visits to Mr Lum’s establishment. An intriguing puzzle worked on his brain in the same way that the substances did.

Even more importantly, if he could only bring in enough money from his chosen profession to sustain himself, then he would be able to tell Mycroft’s minions to bugger off with the jobs they brought him. How many brothers could be so annoying even from thousands of miles away? Which question did not even consider the fact that _most_ loving brothers would be amenable to releasing at least a part of his inheritance ahead of him technically being of age to receive it.

Sadly, _his_ brother was Mycroft Holmes.

Whose only redeeming quality was that he paid well for the jobs he asked Sherlock to take on, although Sherlock could imagine that it was done grudgingly, with teeth gritted.

At least this case was marginally more interesting than many of the ones Mycroft presented to him. Although it had meant leaving London, which irritated him a bit. He did not know Dublin at all, had no police contacts here, no gang of street ruffians he was training up to be useful.

It was only him.

Clearly, the murder of a third-rate journalist from one of the yellow-sheet papers would not have ordinarily aroused much interest at all. Most especially within those clandestine circles in which Mycroft operated. Although the clever way it had been carried out was certainly aimed at attracting attention.

Poison on the pointed tip of a brolly. The journalist merely walking across the O’Connell bridge, probably enjoying a sunny spring morning. What appeared to be an accidental encounter and then an hour later the journalist collapsed on the floor of his newsroom, trembling and frothing at the mouth. He was dead within minutes.

But even that dramatic demise would not have been enough to catch the attention of the Mighty Holmes. Which meant that there was something special about this sordid little murder.

And so here he was, in a Dublin pub, listening to far too many inebriated idiots waste his time.

It was a bit amusing to realize that they were all petty criminals, the whole lot of them. Thieves and conmen. Some prone to smashing shop windows and hauling off whatever they could grab. Wife-beaters and pimps. Whatever violence or indecencies they might have committed, their most odious crime, in Sherlock’s opinion was that they were tedious.

He was so bored that he actually drank one of the vile ales. And wished desperately for his needle and some 7% solution.

But then something one of the idiots said penetrated.

On the surface, it was nothing important, just a rambling tale of a home robbery gone wrong, when the housemaid interrupted the crime and was brutally stabbed to death. But the house in question was owned by a magistrate and amongst the haul made by the thieves were some of his files. Not the sort of thing thieves generally went after. All the thieves around the pub table agreed with that.

The part that stirred Sherlock’s interest was the fact that all of the purloined files dealt with a particular series of crimes.

His attention sharpened.

One thing soon became very clear to him. There was a name nobody would mention, despite how delicately or forcefully Sherlock probed. Whoever the man behind the name was, it seemed clear that he was connected to many of the crimes committed in Dublin over the past several years.

Including the killing of that third-rate journalist, Patrick Killian.

“Bastard thought he finally struck lucky,” the pimp said in a scathing tone. “Some big story he thought sure would make him famous.”

Several others at the table laughed.

Sherlock ignored the laughter and sneers directed at a dead man. “What was that big story? Did he say?”

More laughter ensued. “Bloody man drank,” the pimp said. “Talked shite all the time.”

A new voice entered the conversation. The housebreaker leaned forward a bit. “Bastard thought he had uncovered some crime boss, a man behind everything from murder to taking candy from a wee babe.”

There was more laughter.

“And now Killian is dead,” Sherlock pointed out mildly. “Killed in broad daylight in the middle of the O’Connell Bridge.”

His bland recital of those facts quieted the group.

“So,” he continued, “perhaps there was something to what Killian was saying.”

No one had a response to that.

Just then, some fiddle player started making a lot of noise that sounded more like a a dying cat than music. The clapping and the dancing started.

That was Sherlock’s cue to hastily depart.

*

After three more days of trudging around Dublin, talking to more low-lifes than he could count, while also trying to convince the local constabulary that a criminal mastermind was operating in their city and, in odd moments, half-heartedly looking for an opium den, Sherlock still knew very little. On the second day, one of Mycroft’s minions turned up to press him for answers. His harassment hit Sherlock’s last nerve and he sent the agent scurrying off under a barrage of insults.

It seemed pointless to linger on in Dublin any longer. At any rate, Sherlock was beginning to believe that the the reach of the unnamed master villain extended beyond Dublin or even Ireland. There was a trail, he thought, that might be picked up in London.

And he wanted to go home.

Sherlock booked a place on the last ferry of the night and went back to his hotel to pack. With time to spare, he stood at the window to smoke a cigarette. The lack of success on the case made him angry, made it feel as if dozens of insects were crawling over his flesh. Of course, there was also the vital question of whether he would still get paid for this case, despite the lack of results.

Mycroft could be petty like that.

A short time later, he left to catch the ferry. He was close enough to hear the noises coming from the port, walking quickly through a narrow passageway, when suddenly he was surrounded by four men. He sighed. Being attacked in dark alleys was already becoming boring.

“You know,” he said, trying for nonchalance, “I did not think that I was anywhere close enough to discovering information about your patron to worry anyone. But apparently I was. Thank you for that last bit of information.”

If they had knives or a poisoned brolly, they did not use them. Brass knuckles served the purpose well, however. He did not resist and in only a couple of minutes they allowed his body to fall to the pavement. He kept his eyes closed.

“Didn’t kill ‘im, did we?” one voice said. “The boss said not to kill him.”

A foot collided with Sherlock’s ribs. “He ain’t dead.”

As his assailants walked away, Sherlock heard laughter and a few quiet words. Only one stuck in his mind, however.

_Moriarty._

It took some time for him to struggle to his feet, only to be knocked down again by an unexpected collision with a member of the much-maligned constabulary when the man ducked into the dark passageway to have a piss.

*

4

He was in the middle of a meeting with an American railroad tycoon who was exploring the possibility of making some investment in India when the telegram was brought into his office. While the rich blowhard rambled on, Mycroft unfolded the message.

_Your brother taken to hospitalSTOPHad been beatenSTOPLeft against adviceSTOPCaught ferry to LiverpoolSTOPPlease adviseSTOP_

Mycroft sighed and folded the telegram, before putting it into his pocket. He pretended to return his attention to the magnate.

**


	17. The Expectation of Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is off to foreign parts again. Mycroft plots. Sherlock hates his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my loyal readers. Happy to bring you a new chapter. And just to cheer some of you, I promise that there is only one more chapter after this one before the big meeting takes place.
> 
> However, this chapter is a bit later than usual as I have been travelling today and I will not be home until next week. I could do my usual rather OCD behaviour and push myself with the edit and polish on the next chapter, to make my Sunday posting but I have decided to give myself a break. So there will be no posting on Sunday. Chapter eighteen will be posted on next Wednesday. I hope you can forgive me! And please let me know what you think of this chapter.

We never live; we just are always in  
the expectation of living.

-Voltaire

1

There had been many times during his return voyage to England when John thought that he would not survive the journey. Fever, pain, nightmares all combined to slowly but inevitably turn him into a wreck of a man. A man with little hope and fewer dreams of a life still to be lead.

He rarely left his tiny cabin, even for meals, and consoled himself with the bottle of cheap whisky he’d purchased from the crewman who brought him hot water every morning. Whenever his thoughts turned to the proud young man who had left London, happy in the company of good brave fellows, eager to see what adventures lay ahead and open to so many possibilities, John needed the comfort of alcohol.

Sometimes, in the darkness, he would think of his mother. _Didn’t I always tell you, son? Trying to get above your station will never lead to anything good. But you wouldn’t listen and look at you now._

Look at me now, indeed, John thought bitterly.

*

When he finally reached London, his situation did not improve. He was just one more piece of refuse, wrecked on the shore of Empire, and now of no use. In Victoria’s England, if one could not be useful, there was no point in existing. It aggravated him that just as he had ignored his mother’s advice, he had also ignored the lesson that should have been learned during his encounter with one Sergeant Henry Bowers on a park bench so long ago.

Was that all he would be now? A young man turned old too soon, sitting on a bench all night, telling war stories to ignorant boys who would deign to listen?

Most days, all he felt was the nearly over-whelming regret that he had even survived the voyage home. Not that London felt much like home anymore. Why had he once thought this place the most exciting city in the world? Nowadays, it felt like a cesspool. And he was drowning in it, screaming inside for rescue that was not forthcoming. How many more times would he be able to thrash his way out of the whirlpool, gasping for oxygen so he could carry on? How many more times would he want to?

After an all-too-brief period of time, John had been forced to remove himself from the comfortable circumstance at the Strand Hotel; his paltry pension could no longer support such profligacy. Instead, he now lived in a shabby room above a pawn shop, with only his pistol, his dark moods and the taunting of his mother’s voice for companionship.

On a rare day, he could muster just enough energy to try to keep himself afloat, at least for a little longer.

He would don his least shabby suit, shave carefully while thinking about growing a moustache to replace the one removed in hospital and put just a touch of pomade in his hair. Thus, transformed into a gentleman, albeit one with a limp and an intermittent tremor, he would make the round of several surgeries, mostly small, out of the way places that he hoped might be less particular about their hires. But it was becoming clear that not even the most unprepossessing surgery seemed interested in the mere shadow of Dr John Watson. And he could not really blame them.

One bright [hateful] spring afternoon, after yet another futile interview at a shabby surgery out in Barking, John found himself walking through Russell Square Park, entirely without purpose or direction. The hated tapping of his stick almost seemed to drown out the noises of the city around him.

At just the right moment, he looked up and saw the man sitting on a bench straight ahead, clearly enjoying both his pipe and the sunshine. It took a moment’s thought before he could place why the man looked familiar. When he remembered, John froze right in the middle of the path, causing the nanny walking behind to nearly push the pram into him. He muttered an apology, still looking at the man, and she moved on with a haughty sniff.

Stamford.

His former dresser at Bart’s.

They had not been friends, really, but their relationship had always been amiable. That was due, primarily, to Stamford, who was the epitome of amiability, no matter the circumstance. Looking at the man now, it was obvious that he was flourishing, his student-dresser days behind him. He’d gotten fat and his round face bore every sign of satisfaction.

John was still stuck in place, other walkers moving around him impatiently. The sight of Stamford made him realise yet again, with the force of a blow to the solar plexus, how far he had fallen. His ‘best’ suit was frayed, could do with a pressing and hung awkwardly on his now too-thin frame. Yes, he had shaved carefully, but that only served to emphasise the gauntness of his face and the shadows below his eyes.

It was almost in a panic that John finally moved, spinning around on his heels and hurrying back towards the main road. He feared hearing Stamford’s voice calling after him. But it never came and he made it away safely, melding easily into the pedestrian traffic headed for the omnibus stop.

*

It was a fortnight after his near-encounter with Stamford in the park that John’s luck ran out. He was in the Black Dog, spending pence he shouldn’t have been spending on a pint of ale and wondering if it might be a good idea to take his last bit of money and try his luck at some cards. There was always a game in the back room of the Black Dog.

It probably wasn’t a wise idea, but of late it seemed that wisdom had not served him well.

Then the voice came, from just behind him.

“Watson? John Watson, you bastard you!”

Startled, he turned around and saw another familiar face. “Monroe,” he managed to say.

Herbert Monroe. Former lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Forces. The neatly folded and pinned empty sleeve reminded John of what he had heard of Monroe’s fate. A skirmish somewhere that John could not remember at the moment. Despite the impediment of a missing arm, Monroe was respectably dressed and appeared well-fed and content, so he was clearly faring better than John. Then another recollection: the Monroe family owned a well-regarded accounting firm somewhere in London. No doubt the former officer had come home to a position there.

Gregarious as ever and essentially a kind man, Monroe insisted on getting each of them another pint and they adjourned to a corner table. There was the usual conversation of old campaigners, despite the fact that neither of them was much past thirty. Talk of former comrades and their various fates. The luck, good or otherwise, which had delivered them each to the Black Dog on this night.

“So how are you keeping these days?” Monroe finally asked.

John was certain that the other man could read the answer to the question just by casting his gaze over the shabby best suit and shuttered eyes. He took a too-large swallow of the ale, wondering what lie he could tell to make himself seem a less pathetic figure in Monroe’s opinion. Then, unexpectedly, he uttered the plain truth. “No one wants to hire a doctor with a hand that trembles,” he said, holding said hand out. It remained stubbornly still. “Comes and goes,” he muttered.

Monroe only looked at him for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Had a letter from a former commander of mine,” he said. “He’s retired now, but stayed on in Calcutta.”

“Some do,” John said with a shrug.

“How about you, Watson? Any inclination to see foreign parts again?”

John felt a flash of irritation. “What are you talking about?”

Instead of replying immediately, Monroe took out an engraved silver case, removed one of his cards from it and scribbled something on the back, before sliding the card across the table towards John. “Take my card and go see this man,” he said thoughtfully. “I think it might be to your advantage.”

John picked up the card and read the name on the back. “Mr Franklin Bonner? At the Foreign Office? What the hell?”

Monroe just smiled.

*

It was ridiculous, of course. He did not doubt Monroe’s intention, did not think this merely some jape. Monroe was an honourable man. But it was clearly some misjudgement on his part, about Watson or about whatever this Bonner was seeking. It would undoubtedly end up an embarrassment for himself and the man from the Foreign Office.

But, more from desperation than any real hope, John wrote to arrange the appointment and when it was agreed to, appeared promptly on time.

Bonner was a typical bureaucrat, dour and officious. But he seemed to take John at face value and did not seem put off by his shortcomings.

The interview lasted an hour. John kept his hand fisted on his knee and, by what felt like force of will, kept it steady. Miraculously, when he walked out of the building, he felt like a different man and London like a different city. It was, once again, a shining place and one that he would be sorry to leave.

But leave it he would, in just a fortnight, journeying again to Calcutta, to serve as a civilian physician to the British community there.

John Watson, it seemed, had a second act to live.

*

2

One of the hardest parts of Mycroft’s position was the need to socialise. To mingle and chat at dinner parties and polo matches and the occasional ball. Nothing in his life previously had really prepared him for any of that. Not his solitary childhood. Not his time at either Eton or Cambridge, both places where one could simply put his head down and concentrate on his studies and only be thought a bit odd. Even such forced activities as the rowing team could be managed. All one had to do was show up to row when required and then skip the post race celebration or commiseration in the pub. Again, a bit odd in the eyes of others, but Cambridge always had more than its fair share of oddballs.

But now he had to perform the expected social rituals and because Mycroft Holmes always strove for perfection, he had taught himself to socialise and charm with the best of them. Simmons knew to always have a large whisky waiting for him after such occasions.

Occasions such as this one, a tea hosted by the Ladies Auxiliary at the polo grounds clubhouse. Much of the afternoon had been spent in conversation with those women he described as the Dragons of the Empire, formidable wives or widows who effectively ran the social scene in Calcutta. Unhappily, too many of them wanted only to talk about the past with him.

How charming his Father had been. How sweet and brave his poor Mother had been. They shared memories of the lovely boy Mycroft they all seemed to recall. None of those memories meant anything to him. But he smiled and nodded and made soft sounds of agreement.

At least they had the delicacy not to bring up the slightly scandalous second marriage or the disappearance and murder of that Indian wife. Or even the rather odd son of that union.

Mycroft thought that if he could hold onto his charming facade through this afternoon that it would never fail him.

At the same time that he was nodding and smiling, eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking too much tea, he was also contemplating the problem of his troublesome brother. The one even the dragons would not talk to him about. The reports he was getting from London continued to be worrying. He had not long ago added yet another pair of eyes to his surveillance team, a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. The man seemed slightly less idiotic than most of his ilk. His reports were always succinct and discreet, without any of the attempts to curry favour so often included by his agents. Mycroft appreciated that. In fact, the inspector displayed none of the eagerness to please that so many others did and actually seemed reluctant to reveal too much about Sherlock. But once he was convinced that it was in Sherlock’s interest for his older brother to keep a watch on him, Lestrade gave in.

But still, it was all a worry.

So as he accepted a slice of sponge and pretended to be enthralled by yet one more tale of a history he had no interest in, Mycroft’s mind was primarily engaged elsewhere.

Namely, what was one to do about Sherlock Holmes. Whatever solution he came up with was bound to be inconvenient. It was all very wearying.

Wistfully he thought of the whisky that would be awaiting him at home.

*

3

He was a chemist, after all. Even sans degree. It should follow, therefore, that he ought to be able to manage his little habit without difficulty. Still, unfortunate things happened, occasionally. It was just hard luck that the idiot from Scotland Yard had come round to consult with him on one of those occasions.

It was nothing really dangerous, despite the bleating of the inspector. Sherlock was merely in the darkest depths of a cocaine-fuelled fantasy.

The fantasies...

He was fond of them usually, especially the ones that featured India, Mummy, butterflies. In those fantasies, the sun was always bright and Mummy was always smiling and calling him ‘her clever boy.’ When the drug wore off, he would wake up feeling quite cheerful.

But sometimes things went very, very wrong. All he saw then were death and darkness and when the fantasy ended, he would wake shaking and fearful, sometimes with tears rolling down his face.

That was how Lestrade found him on the unlucky day. The inspector, surprisingly, just looked very sad. “I know it is not against any law, Holmes,” he said. “But I have too often had cause to be in the opium dens and in those low places, I see the fools who spend their lives staring at the wall, the stupor so great that they lose all those things that matter.”

Sherlock had pushed himself up from the floor and straightened his dressing gown with exaggerated dignity, pretending that Lestrade had not just found him as a quivering mess. Now, his smile was sharp-edged. “They are fools. I am not. Why are you here?”

Lestrade shrugged. “A case. I had thought to consult you. But now I think better of it. I need your mind clear. Perhaps the next time I have a puzzle that stymies us.”

“Every puzzle stymies you,” Sherlock said icily.”My mind is fine.”

Lestrade plopped his hat back on his head. “And I shall look forward to using that mind again. But not tonight.” Then he left.

“Bloody idiot!” Sherlock shouted in his wake. Then he went to the window and watched Lestrade climb into the waiting growler and depart.

Sherlock stood at the window for a very long time. He feared that without the cases he would turn ever more frequently to his needle. And in the wake of the terrible fantasy from which he had just emerged, that thought was rather frightening. He had no real wish to do himself harm.

It was just the boredom.

He sat on the floor again and packed his accoutrements back into the small leather box. It would probably be wisest to just dispose of it all, leave it for the rubbish collection. But that seemed a step too far, so, instead, he simply tucked the box deep into the wardrobe.

Three days later, Lestrade returned, the case still unsolved, and related it all to Sherlock, who this time was properly dressed and groomed, looking like a gentleman. 

The murderer was the pawnbroker’s mistress, of course, and he had known that from the off, but it took three days of hard graft to collect enough evidence to satisfy the Inspector.

Sherlock was tired after those three days, having had no sleep and consumed nothing beyond endless cups of bad tea at the Yard. As long as a case was in progress, he was fine, but after it was finished, his body surrendered.

That weariness was no doubt why he was fully inside his rooms on Montague Street and had removed his coat before he even noticed the man sitting in the lone chair. Straight-backed and grim-faced. Cold eyes.

Ignoring the uninvited visitor for the moment, Sherlock went to lean against the mantel and began to prepare his pipe. “Whatever he wants, the answer is no,” he said at last.

The man did not seem concerned. “Mr Holmes asked me to deliver this to you personally,” he said, taking an envelope from his attaché case.

“I have no interest at all in whatever it is.” Sherlock studied the smoke spiralling into the already stodgy air of the room.

The man stood and dropped the envelope on the table. “My only duty was to make the delivery.”

Sherlock smiled unpleasantly. “Those marionette strings that my brother pulls have a very long reach, don’t they? Do they ever chafe? Or do you just keep dancing to his tune?

After a nod, the man left.

Sherlock shouted down for a cup of tea and after a few minutes the sullen wife of the landlord brought it up, not failing to remind him of his over-due rent. Eviction was mentioned. Again.

When she was gone, he took two swallows of the already lukewarm tea. Finally, he opened the envelope.

Inside he found an itinerary and a ticket for passage to India in a month’s time. And a note in Mycroft’s hand.

_Sherlock,_

_The departure date gives you ample time to conclude whatever activities that engage you in London. I look forward to seeing you soon.  
-Mycroft_

“Bastard,” Sherlock said.

He tossed the papers back down onto the table, finished the dreadful tea and stretched out on the sofa.

In only a moment, he was asleep.

*

The crime scene was in the kind of place Lestrade hated the most. A posh house in Mayfair.

Sherlock knew the man well-enough to read the signs. A certain stiffness in the set of his shoulders. A subtle but definite twitch in one eye. And, most obvious, the obsequiousness being shown to the posh Sir and his lovely Lady wife. It all made Sherlock think that Lestrade would soon be tugging at his forelock.

Constant-Hayes waited impatiently as his wife listed the contents of her jewellery box which had gone missing from her dressing table the previous night. A maid was suspected and threatened with dismissal and arrest. The young girl had burst into tears and fled the room, none of which was helpful.

Sherlock had already conducted a thorough search of the lady’s bedroom and was convinced he knew who the thief was—- _> not_ the tearful maid—-but for the moment, he was being mildly entertained by watching Lestrade act the idiot.

Finally, just as Constant-Hayes was about to explode at Lestrade’s bumbling, Sherlock stirred from his place at the window. “Lady Eleanor,” he began in his smoothest tone, “I do wonder if you really think that your lover will be satisfied only with that pile of frankly mediocre jewellery? Next I am sure that he will be after the rest of your collection which resides in the safety deposit box at the bank.”

It was a close run thing, who went paler, Lady Eleanor or Lestrade. Sir Anthony, on the other hand, turned a particularly effective shade of puce.

Sherlock shoved both hands into his pockets and strolled to the centre of the room. “I expect it was the chauffeur—-no, wait, the gardener, am I right?”

It was another hour before the entire mess was straightened out. There was no arrest, of course, not even of the blackmailing gardener, because avoiding a scandal was the most important thing. Sherlock and Lestrade followed Sergeant Dimmock out of the house and to the waiting growler. Lestrade sent Dimmock away on foot, however, before waving Sherlock into the carriage.

It rapidly became clear that Lestrade was now tense for a completely different reason. As they bumped along the road, he fidgeted and stared at nothing in particular.

Sherlock just waited. He reached for his pipe, but instead his fingers touched the thick envelope which had appeared in the mail that very morning, just before the summons from Lestrade had arrived. Because it was from Mycroft, it was clearly nothing important, so Sherlock had just shoved the envelope into his pocket and forgotten about it. There were still three weeks before the ship [which he had no intention of boarding] departed, so what else could his brother be bothering him about?

“Holmes,” Lestrade said finally, “I am very sorry to say this, but the Yard cannot use you on any future cases.”

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment. “What? Why?” He wanted to say that he had not used the needle [well, very much] since Lestrade’s warning, but held his tongue.

“Nothing to do with you,” Lestrade said, seeming to answer the unasked question. “But word has come down from the highest quarters.”

And Sherlock knew immediately what that meant. “My bloody brother.”

A flash of something that almost looked like guilt flashed through Lestrade’s eyes. “Don’t know anything about that,” he said.

Sherlock snorted.

“It’s a damned shame, though. You’re better than most.”

“I’m better than them all,” Sherlock snarled. “And you’re an even bigger fool than I thought if you let that pompous arse give you orders.”

“My commissioner tells me what to do,” Lestrade replied sharply.

The growler slowed in the clogged traffic and Sherlock jumped out. “Go to hell,” he shouted back as he stalked away.

He was in such a fury that he walked all the way back to Montague Street, oblivious to anything around him.

Once there, he was very tempted to dig his leather box out of the back of the wardrobe. In recent days, he had only used once and then not even the full 7% solution. But for the moment, at least, he resisted.

Instead, he stood at the window and gazed out towards the British Museum.

So Mycroft had banned the Yard from using his skills. And now that he thought about it, perhaps his brother also had something to do with his dearth of private cases, although Sherlock did not see how he could do that.

After another moment, Sherlock removed the fat envelope from his pocket and ripped it open.

He blinked at what it contained. His father’s last will and testament.

Sherlock read only the parts that had been marked in red ink. When he finished, he threw the pages across the room and watched them flutter to the floor like a paper snowstorm.

Damn his father to hell and damn Mycroft right along with him

**


	18. A Little More Detail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft plans. John makes an effort. Sherlock deduces the passengers on his voyage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After my very short hiatus, I am back with the next chapter. I hope you feel it was worth the wait. As always, I love hearing from you with your thoughts.
> 
> And in the very next chapter, two characters will finally meet.

We will now discuss in a little more  
detail the struggle for existence.

-Darwin, C.

1

“So, Dr Watson, what do you think?”

What did he think?

Briefly, John thought about speaking the absolute truth to the woman sitting in his surgery.

What did he think?

_I think your hat is appalling. The colour of your gown makes your already sallow skin look positively yellow. Your frequent visits to my office, which always seem to involve some delicate female complaint, are boring. Your unsubtle attempts at seduction are laughable. Even if I were tempted by the batting of your eyelashes and the giggles that might have been appealing coming from a girl in the first flush of womanhood, do you really think I would be so foolish as to dally with the wife of a general known for his hot temper?_

Sometimes, he thought that his ‘bedside manner’ was not what it should be. But it was all so deadly dull.

John had hoped that coming to Calcutta, that getting away from the dismal place that London had become in his eyes, would propel him into a new life. And that might have been possible save for the one fly in the ointment. That flaw, of course, was that he was still John Watson. He still limped, his hand still trembled intermittently and the black moods still descended upon him periodically.

Fleeing across an ocean and settling in a new city had not changed those things at all and John was beginning to think that nothing would ever improve for him. Had all his struggles and work only served to bring him to a world that had no light, no joy, only one grey day after another?

Sometimes he thought that his expectations were too high. Perhaps everyone else was also living a life of quiet desperation, but they were just better at accepting it. Buck up, Watson, he told himself. You are in a better place than you ever thought you would be. Better than your family ever thought possible. 

Abruptly, he realised that Mrs Cole was still waiting for an answer to her question.

What did he think?

John opened the top drawer in his desk and took out a small bottle filled with a pale green liquid. “I think you are just a bit run down, Mrs Cole. This elixir should see you right in a few days.” Well, it certainly wouldn’t do her any harm.

She took the bottle with a tremulous smile and thanked him profusely.

He knew that she would be back within a fortnight with some new complaint.

Not unlike his patient, John knew that something was missing from his life, but he did not really know what that _Something_ was. He hated that the secret of happiness always seemed to evade him. Perhaps contentment had to be earned. Maybe he just needed to try harder. Yes, that made sense. John Watson was not a quitter. He _could_ be happy. All he had to do was make a greater effort.

Before he could think about it further, however, the door opened and his receptionist showed in old General Markey, retired now, but still living in Calcutta.

No doubt his piles were acting up again.

John smiled at him.

*

As on many other nights, John went to the club after his solitary dinner at home. Unlike most of the others, he did not go for the companionship or to debate politics or even to indulge in a game or two of billiards. Oh, he might lie to himself a bit and say that he was there for any one of those things, but in reality, he was there to drink.

Not that he couldn’t drink in his own bungalow, as well, of course, but that would mean drinking alone. The idea did not appeal. It reminded him too much of the old man, sitting in the corner of the hovel that was home back then, technically not alone, but so oblivious to the needs of his family that he might as well have been. John did not want to become that man. So he went to the club almost every night, to the place where a man could have a drink without the guilt. It was also useful that being in the company of others served as a brake for a fellow who might be inclined to have a few too many whiskies of an evening.

It was perfectly respectable.

Given his determination to make a greater effort, he nodded and spoke to several people as he made the way to his usual table. His greetings were returned amicably, but he was not inclined to stop and engage in an actual conversation with anyone. Small steps, he told himself.

Unsurprisingly, he was usually left alone at his table on these evenings, beyond the most basic civilities, so it was a surprise when he realised that someone had appeared in front of him. He immediately knew who the man was, although they had never actually spoken. “Good evening, Mr Holmes,” he said, standing.

“Dr Watson,” was the reply. “I saw you sitting here and remonstrated with myself for not having made your acquaintance earlier.” They shook hands and after a nod from John, Holmes sat.

John resumed his own chair and studied the man while trying to look as if he were not doing so. Thin, but with the slight softness of someone who spent too much time behind a desk and not enough in physical exercise. His hair under the last rays of the day’s sun coming in through the window had subtle red highlights under the pomade that kept it slickly in place. The eyes were slightly shadowed but sharply intelligent. “Quite understandable.You are a very busy man,” John said. “I am merely an ordinary doctor.”

Holmes paused as the barman delivered two more drinks to the table. They each lifted a glass in an off-handed toast. “Not so ordinary, sir. I know you served in the Burma campaign.”

John could not help the grimace that fleetingly touched his face. “You will forgive me when I wonder if that folly even deserves the title ‘campaign.’” Immediately he realised that perhaps he should not have said that to the man who apparently ran everything in Calcutta, if not India itself, who represented the very government which had sent him to Burma.

But Holmes only gave a faint smile. “The idea that it was a folly does not diminish the bravery of those who served.”

They were both quiet for a moment.

It was Holmes who broke the silence. “How are you finding life in Calcutta?” he asked with what had to be a diplomatic facade of interest.

“It’s fine,” John replied.

Holmes nodded. “I suppose it takes time to adjust. I, of course, grew up here, so it is all very familiar to me.”

John tried to remember if he had known that about Holmes. “So your family is here?”

Holmes took a prim sip of the whisky. “My parents are dead,” he said. “I do have one brother.” His smile was small and fleeting. “Technically, a half-brother, but family is family, right?”

John had no response to that.

“He has been in England, finishing his education. But, happily, I expect to be reunited with him very soon, as he is returning momentarily.” Oddly, Holmes did not seem all that cheered by the promise of that reunion.

It seemed as if the fates were commanding him to have another drink this evening, so John waved at the barman for two more whiskies. After all, he was socialising, just as he had promised himself to do. Not only that, he was socialising with a very important person. “We shall toast your bother’s swift and safe arrival,” he said. 

If Holmes’ smile seemed a bit forced, the whisky was still fine.

*

2

Sherlock had forgotten how much he really did not care for crossing the Atlantic Ocean. 

The monotony of being held captive in a small space, forced to interact with the same dull people day after day, was torture. His only amusement, although it was a meagre one indeed, was to deduce his fellow passengers. It was a bit interesting that so many of them had secrets, but perhaps that should not have come as a surprise. He suspected they were all either fleeing something or journeying in search of something.

He wondered if anyone else was being forced to India against their wishes.

*

The woman came to stand next to him at the railing where he was seeking what pleasure he could in his pipe and thoughts of how he might take revenge on his brother. She was one of those who shared the same table at breakfast and dinner on those occasions when Sherlock deigned to turn up for meals. He had not bothered to remember any of their names.

“I am glad the weather has improved,” she said.

He sighed. The weather, as always, was a topic of far too many conversations. Apparently the glance he gave her conveyed the depth of his disdain, because she laughed lightly.

“Oh, yes, the English and our endless nattering about the weather. Tiresome, I agree.”

Sherlock had already deduced, during the first meal where they had both been present, that she was not actually English at all, despite her rather good attempts to appear so. American, he thought. Or at least a resident of that country for some time. A woman with secrets indeed.

“We were never properly introduced, were we? Life aboard a ship is so informal.” She held out a gloved hand. “Mary Morstan.”

A fake name to accompany a fake nationality.

He barely touched her hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

They both watched the waves for a time.

Miss Morstan finally broke the silence. “Are you running away from something or towards something?”

Ah, so she was a clever woman. His interest was rather piqued.

“Neither. I am merely running an errand,” he said. “How about you?”

She gave a soft laugh. “Oh, I am so dull. One of those women who who has exhausted the social scene in London without quite landing the prize. So my guardian thought my prospects might be improved by striking out to new territory.”

Lie upon lie.

She glanced down at the small gold watch pinned to her bodice. “Oh, goodness, I must run. My friend Miss Kennedy is expecting me to have tea with her.” She leant a little closer. “We are plotting our triumphant entrance to Calcutta society.” With that, she scurried off.

He vaguely remembered Miss Kennedy, a dark-haired young Irish woman who smiled too much, but said little. She always seemed a bit uncertain, looking to her companion for guidance. There was no doubt that the two of them were plotting something, but making their mark on society was undoubtedly not it.

After that first encounter, Sherlock seemed to be meeting Miss Morstan frequently and not just at meals. She was often with Miss Kennedy, as well as a third person from their table, a large blond man with a semi-permanent scowl and the attitude of a man always looking for a fight. Miss Kennedy seemed to be amused by him, often saying “Oh, Mr Moran, don’t be such a sour puss.”

Sherlock did not find him amusing.

He had not missed the fact that when Miss Morstan introduced him to Moran something...odd...flickered through his chilly gaze. It struck Sherlock that the man had known exactly who he was even before that introduction

*

Sherlock was reading through his father’s will yet again, still trying find some loophole, some way out, that he could throw into Mycroft’s face. Something that would make the man give up and allow that Sherlock could board the next ship back to England and still inherit what he deserved. There _had_ to be something.

The soft tap at his door was totally unexpected. Sherlock tightened the knot on the dressing gown he was wearing and went to answer.

Miss Morstan stood there, looking sheepish.

Sherlock just gazed at her.

“Oh, dear, Mr Holmes, you are going to find me very foolish, but I could not think what else to do.”

“About what?” he asked. In his considered opinion, Miss Morstan might be many things, but he doubted seriously that foolish was one of them.

“I seem to have lost my bracelet, not that it is anything terribly valuable, but it does hold great sentimental value. I suspect that it slipped off when Miss Kennedy and I were taking our regular walk this evening. We paused to watch a crewman who was playing a fiddle. The scene was a bit crowded and I fear the bracelet was lost then.”

Sherlock had heard the fiddle-playing earlier and it had caused him to grimace a bit. Had his violin not been packed away safely, he might have been tempted to show everyone what real music sounded like. “And you have come to me why, exactly?”

“I want to go up to the deck and search. But it is so late and I am a bit afraid to be wandering around on my own.”

He wondered if the woman ever said anything that wasn’t a lie. What did she fear might happen? Whatever it was, she would probably be quite able to manage it on her own. But he was slightly curious about what her endgame might be. Or maybe he was just so very bored that anything out of the ordinary held appeal. “Just a moment,” he said, closing the door. Quickly, he slipped off the dressing gown and donned his coat.

She smiled brightly when he opened the door again. “You are so kind, Mr Holmes.”

He snorted, but said nothing.

They went up the narrow stairs and out into the night, then walked to where several lifeboats were lashed to the deck. It was very quiet, because of the late hour, with only the watchmen, one fore and one aft, to witness their search. One oil lamp nearby provided barely adequate illumination. Sherlock pretended to be searching for the putative lost bracelet, while actually watching the woman, so he saw clearly when something small and shiny slipped from her sleeve into a dark corner.

“Oh, gracious! Look here, Mr Holmes, I have it!” She held the bracelet up triumphantly.

“How fortunate,” he replied drily. He watched as she put the bracelet around her wrist. “Take care. Not to lose it again, I mean.” That was not what he meant at all, of course.

She flashed him a bright and knowing smile, before moving to stand beside him at the rail and gazing up at the full moon. “How lovely it is.”

He shrugged indifferently.

She turned to face him. “Now you are going to find me very bold and perhaps a bit shameless, Mr Holmes.”

“Am I indeed?”

She rested a hand lightly on his arm. “It does seem as if when one is on a voyage, out here in the middle of the vast ocean, the normal rules of society feel rather meaningless.”

Her fake coyness was beginning to grate on his nerves. “Oh, Miss Morstan, I am of the opinion that the usual rules of society mean very little to you even when you are on dry land.”

“You know, Mr Holmes, I feel the same about you.” She leaned forward and placed a kiss on his lips, lightly, but clearly with intention.

He stepped back, resisting the urge to wipe a hand across his lips. “I bid you a good evening. No doubt you can make your own way back to your cabin.”

She looked at him for a moment, the corners of her mouth turned up into a mocking smile.

Sherlock turned around and walked away.

*

3

Mycroft did not dare to believe that Sherlock had actually boarded the ship bound for India until he received confirmation from that fellow Lestrade. Getting the word had set his mind at ease, at least for the moment, although he supposed that there was always the risk that his brother would slip away at one of the ports along the route. Still, there was the money. No matter how dismissive Sherlock might be about financial matters, he did need an income in order to live. What sane man would reject a small fortune, even if obtaining it meant spending a year in a place he did not want to be. And in the company of a person with whom he apparently had no desire to spend any time at all.

Well, Mycroft was not a fool, so he was aware that if anyone _would_ decide that the trade off was not worth it, it might very well be Sherlock Holmes. 

Late one night, as Mycroft was poring over very dull reports from the Treasury, he glanced up and saw the two faces that accompanied him wherever he had gone over the years. The young woman who had been his mother and the baby who was now his grown-up brother. One was irretrievable, but just possibly the other might not be lost to him forever.

It was sentiment and Mycroft hated that he was apparently as susceptible as the rest of humanity to that defect. Because of sentiment, he was going to a lot of trouble and being distracted from the more important things.

Impatiently, he slammed the Treasury report closed and decided to go to bed.

Simmons heard him in the corridor and appeared. “Will you have your milk tonight, sir?”

His valet had introduced Mycroft to the habit of having a cup of warm milk that had been mixed with some secret [to Mycroft] spices before bed, claiming that it would help him sleep. Whether that was true or not, Mycroft did not mind the routine. “Yes, please,” he said.

On the way to his bedroom, Mycroft paused outside the door of what had been Sherlock’s room. Still was, if one went by the decor. After a moment, he opened the door and stepped in. The room had a musty smell, naturally. Mycroft lit the lamp and looked around at the detritus of Sherlock’s past occupancy. Books and some sheets of music. An old microscope. Over the desk hung a carefully mounted collection of butterflies. Each specimen was labelled in a careful hand, which he remembered from the letters Sherlock used to write to him.

Then he took a closer look and saw that one butterfly, the last one in fact, was not named. After a moment, he took a book from the shelf. Its red cover was worn and the gold words on the cover faded. _Butterflies of the World_ by the ubiquitous Victorian Lady.

A surprised Simmons stuck his head into the room. “Your milk, sir?” He held a small tray with the cup, along with two biscuits on a plate.

Mycroft gestured for him to set it on the desk.

“This room will need a good clean before your brother arrives.”

“Yes, yes. Good night, Simmons.”

Luckily, the man was well-used to some eccentricity in his employer, so Simmons just nodded and left the room

Mycroft sat there for nearly an hour, nibbling the biscuits and sipping the milk as he searched through the book for the identity of the red-and-blue butterfly that had no name.

4

For once, there had been a bit of excitement at his surgery.

The young son of a government official had fallen from his pony, breaking an arm and, more seriously, receiving a blow to his head. The boy was unconscious when the father rushed in, carrying his son in his arms. The mother was there, weeping and trying to touch him.

John left Mrs Cole in his office and limped as quickly as he could to the examination room. The arm break was a clean, simple one, with no puncturing of the skin and would be easy to fix. But first things first. He probed the lump on the boy’s forehead, checked his eyes, listened to his heart and lungs. All seemed well, actually.

After a moment, John went to fetch the small bottle of smelling salts he kept handy against the frequent swooning of his female patients. Just the faintest use of it brought the boy around. John again checked his vital signs, all of which seemed as expected. It took some time to wrap the arm in a bandage and then apply a coat of plaster of paris. He warned the parents to keep a close watch on their son for the next twenty-four hours, waking the boy frequently and summoning help immediately if any insensibility occurred. The carriage was sent for and the family went home.

When John returned to his office, he was surprised to find Mrs Cole still waiting. Apparently the green elixir had done wonders for her and she wanted more. He was tempted to tell her that the same efficacy could be achieved by a stiff drink before bed, but restrained himself.

That night, he could not summon the energy even to walk over to the club for a drink himself. Instead, he sat in his own bungalow and drank his own whisky. To pass the time, he cleaned his pistol. There was always something comforting about that task. Something reassuring. To know that the weapon rested in the drawer next to his bed seemed to provide a means to an end.

Not that he was close to taking that route, of course. But sometimes he thought about it.

After a moment, he returned the gun to its resting place and turned his attention to the mail. One fine, cream-coloured envelope caught his attention; his name was carefully written in black ink. When he opened it, he found an invitation card.

_The pleasure of your company is requested at a ball on Thursday, 24 May to celebrate the birthday of Her Majesty The Queen..._

He read through the rest and was not surprised to see the signature of Mycroft Holmes at the bottom.

He fingered the invitation thoughtfully.

Well, it might be a lark. A ball was certainly a diversion from contemplating his pistol, even if only a temporary one. And attending the festive event would serve his determination of trying harder to make life seem less dire.

He smiled and picked up his glass, toasting his reflection in the mirror. “Yes, John Hamish Watson, you shall go to the ball.”

**


	19. Looking For Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people meet and everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks. So here is the chapter that inspired this whole story, although I did not know the long and winding road it would take to get here. I hope you have enjoyed the journey thus far and that you will continue to do so. I am especially eager to hear what you think of it, so do let me know.

I am looking for someone to share an  
adventure that I am arranging and  
it’s very difficult to find anyone.

-Tolkien, J.R.R.

1

There was a brougham awaiting his arrival.

As Sherlock walked down the gangplank, he saw one of the stewards pointing in his direction, after which a glum functionary approached him. “Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. “I am here to collect you and then deliver you to Government House.”

Sherlock, feeling a bit like a parcel rather than a person, ignored the functionary and watched his luggage being loaded into a cart.

“Your things will be taken to Mr Holmes’ residence,” the man said in a tone probably meant to be reassuring.

“I would also prefer to go to the residence—-my home, as it happens—as well,” Sherlock said.

“Very sorry, sir, but that is not what I was instructed to do.” He gestured towards the brougham. “If you please.”

“I do not please,” Sherlock muttered, even as he stalked over to the vehicle. “But might as well get it over with.” He paused to look at the Holmes family crest painted on the door of the carriage. Apparently, as he grew older, Mycroft became ever more pompous. That scarcely seemed possible, but apparently he had accomplished the feat. Father would be very proud.

Once settled inside, he completely ignored the other man, who seemed to appreciate that. Instead, Sherlock watched the scene beyond the window. Calcutta was a distant memory, not unlike a page ripped from an old book, one in which the edges had browned and the text faded. In the years since his departure, the city had become busier and more crowded and the journey to Government House took longer than it should have. Not that he was in any hurry at all to arrive at their destination.

Although the journey was slowed by traffic, it was still too soon when they pulled up in front of Mycroft’s centre of power. The minion directed him into the building, but did not accompany him to Mycroft’s office. That was done by yet another functionary, this one a vaguely familiar older man in a military uniform that fit him a bit too snugly. He gave a sidewise glance at Sherlock. “So, L’enfant sauvage returns.”

Sherlock did not spare him a look. “Perhaps if your French were not so execrable you might have advanced beyond the rank you were when I departed. Although given your fondness for cheap local ale, I rather doubt that.”

The rest of the walk was blessedly silent.

His next encounter was with a private secretary, a slightly plump young man with brown hair that was already thinning and a faint twitching in his left eye. Both, no doubt, down to the stress of constant close contact with Mycroft Holmes. When Sherlock walked in, the secretary shuffled some papers, as if to hide them from him. It was amusing that the idiot thought he had any interest at all in whatever Mycroft got up to.

“Mr Holmes said that you were to go right in, sir.”

Sherlock only nodded and went to the door, briefly considered knocking, but then just turned the knob and entered the office that had once been their father’s.

Mycroft was sitting behind a large desk, apparently deeply engaged in reading a thick file. It was a moment before he closed the file, carefully aligning the pages within before looking at Sherlock. His eyes flickered up and down. “You finally grew into your gangly limbs, I see,” he commented drily.

“And I see that you have grown out of your trousers several times,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft smiled. “Oh, I am so looking forward to spending an entire year in such congenial company.”

Sherlock decided that no invitation to sit would be forthcoming, so he sat anyway, slumping in the chair. “There is no need for you to suffer so,” he pointed out. “Simply give me my inheritance without adhering to that ridiculous clause. I will board the next ship back to England, you will be spared my clearly odious company, and we can both get on with our lives.” He smiled brightly.

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Sadly, Father made a will that is quite unbreakable. You are required to live here for one year or your entire inheritance is forfeit.”

“You realise that the money means very little to me, don’t you? I would be content to earn my own way.” His gaze hardened. “But you made that quite impossible, didn’t you? Clever, clever Mycroft.”

Mycroft sneered. “Earning your own way put you into a hovel where no respectable gentleman would choose to live. You wear shabby clothing, mingle with the lowest of the low and indulge in vile habits. Does all of that make you proud?”

“Proud that I am my own man? Rather than being simply a cog in the wheel of the government? Rather than being a person whose whole life is dedicated to obtaining and keeping power? Yes, in that case, I am proud. How about you?”

There was a sullen silence in the room.

Finally, Mycroft seemed to gather himself sufficiently to seize the reins of the conversation. “I would offer you a position here during your stay, but no doubt that would offend you.”

“Not at all. It _would_ amuse me. I have my own occupation and if I am forced to be here that is what I shall do. Unless, of course, you intend to thwart me from working here as well as in London.”

“Not at all. Feel free to amuse yourself as you wish as long as you do nothing to tarnish our family name.” His gaze wandered for a moment until he seemed to make a decision. “In fact, I will offer you a...case? Investigation? However you refer to what it is you do.”

Sherlock straightened slightly. “You know damned well what I do. Your minions certainly showed up at my door in Montague Street often enough.” He glared for a moment, then said, “What case? Not one of your dull government messes you want me to clean up, I hope.”

Mycroft frowned at him, then apparently decided to press on. “Not at all. There have been a series of jewel robberies of late.”

“Sometimes jewel thieves can be fairly clever,” Sherlock conceded.

“This one certainly is. Each of the thefts has occurred in the middle of some social event. Dinners, cotillions, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock was interested.

“The matter is urgent,” Mycroft continued. “In four days I am hosting a ball in honour Her Majesty’s birthday.”

“How loyal of you.”

Mycroft ignored that. “The occasion seems a perfect opportunity for the thief to strike again. Especially as most of society will soon be departing on the annual pilgrimage to Simla for the summer.”

Sherlock brightened. “Oh, you’re off to the hills!”

But Mycroft shook his head. “No. My duties are too heavy. I will be remaining here, at least for the present.”

“What a shame.” His words might have been thought sincere, if not for the accompanying smirk.

“I would like you to attend the ball, ostensibly as simply another guest, so that hopefully you will be able to thwart the thief and, with some luck, perhaps even apprehend him.”

“Luck?” he spit out scornfully. “I do not depend on luck. Is that how you run your little corner of the world?”

Mycroft ducked his head in what might have been an apology. “I did not intend to besmirch your...methods,” he said. “Will you take the assignment?”

Sherlock pretended to think about it. “Very well. I will attend your ball and if the thief appears do my best to end his spree.” He smiled insincerely.. “My usual rates will apply, of course.” He stood. “I would like to go to the house now. It was a long, dull voyage.”

“The carriage is waiting.” Mycroft opened the thick file again. “Sadly, Sherlock, I will probably be late this evening, so feel free to dine without me.”

Already at the door, Sherlock paused, his head cocked. “Hark, is that Father’s voice I hear?” Then he left.

*

Things were little changed in the house. He met Simmons, who eyed him with some suspicion and there were one or two pieces of art that were unfamiliar to Sherlock, but when he reached his room all was as it had been on the day he walked out. His luggage was already piled in the middle of the room. Obviously, in preparation for Sherlock’s return, the place had been cleaned and bedding refreshed. But his books were still on the shelf, his laboratory equipment still on the table, and his butterfly collection was still framed and hanging on the wall.

After a moment, he walked over to look at it.

The last butterfly he ever caught was there. The red and blue one he had captured on the day Mummy vanished. He had prepared and pinned it, but never bothered to identify the specimen. Surprisingly, there was now a label under it, written out in what he immediately recognised as Mycroft’s hand.

_Indian Leaf Butterfly_

_Kallima Inachus_

He stared at it for a moment, bemused, then went to flop down onto the bed, too tired and disinterested to begin unpacking. Probably he could get someone else to do it, but he was out of the habit of being waited upon. He already knew that nothing in any of his cases would be suitable for Mycroft’s damned ball.

In a few moments, he fell asleep and dreamt of butterflies gliding around a dance floor.

*

2

John Watson felt like a fool.

A bored fool. 

Thinking longingly of his pistol yet again.

What was a man who needed a stick just to walk doing at a bloody ball? Well, going by the evidence, for the most part he simply stood in the corner, holding a glass of champagne and wishing he were somewhere—anywhere—else.

For a time, he had toyed with the notion of wearing his dress uniform which, for some reason, he had actually brought from London. But in the end, he had rather wrecked his budget for months in order to visit a tailor and have a new tailcoat made. The fit was perfect, the new white shirt and waistcoat were pristine. So he was a perfectly dressed man with a cane at a ball.

Upon arrival, John had greeted Mycroft Holmes at the entrance and exchanged a few meaningless words. He had assumed that the long-gone brother would have also been in the receiving line, but there had been no sign of him. John sighed and took another sip of the champagne.

“One feels rather like a duck out of water when you don’t know anyone at affairs like this, I always think.”

John turned to look at the speaker standing next to him. The woman was a tad shorter than he and had her blonde hair arranged in a chignon, with a few curly tendrils hanging free. She wore a deep blue off-the-shoulder gown that accented her eyes. “I think you are quite right,” he said with a smile.

“Shall we pretend that someone has properly introduced us and avoid the scandal?” She lifted a hand to him. “Miss Mary Morstan.”

He bent and made the gesture of a kiss above her gloved hand. “Dr John Watson at your service.”

“It piqued my curiosity to see such a handsome gentleman not on the floor.”

John was startled by her forward manner and could not decide if it was charming or a bit off-putting. He glanced at his ebony walking stick. “Sadly, dancing is not really a choice for me.”

She did not seem embarrassed by her faux pas. “Well, there is always a good deal of amusement in just watching, I think.” She gave a small wave to a dark-haired young woman who passed by in the arms of a much older gentleman. “At any rate, my companion, Miss Kennedy, is dancing enough for the two of us.”

There was a pause. John would have liked to think that he was simply out practice in the art of casual conversation [flirting?] with pretty young women, but truthfully, despite appearances, that had never been easy for him. “Are you acquainted with Mr Holmes?” was what he finally said.

“Not at all,” she said lightly. “I was lucky enough to receive an invitation through another acquaintance. I am just arrived in Calcutta and he thought it would be a pleasant introduction to society.”

A servant approached with a tray of crystal glasses filled with champagne. Miss Morstan took John’s empty glass and replaced it with a full one, then took a sip from her own glass.

“Well, in that case, welcome to the city,” John said, lifting his glass in her direction.

She returned the gesture. “Thank you, kind sir.”

There was a sudden pause in the music and the liveried servant appeared by the entrance once again, apparently to announce a new and rather tardy guest to the ball. “Mr Sherlock Holmes.” The name rang out.

Two things occurred at that moment. For some reason, a flicker of what looked like irritation crossed Miss Morstan’s face. At the same time, John’s thought was, _Oh, the prodigal brother has returned.”_

There was a collective gasp in the room and then complete silence.

Curious, John finally turned to see what had apparently stunned the crowd.

Mr Sherlock Holmes was not what he [or anyone else, clearly] had expected to see.

The tall, thin man stood proudly at the entrance. He was not wearing the formal attire of an English gentleman, but instead had donned a sherwani, the long coat that was a traditional native garment. It was deep aubergine in colour, with silver embroidered embellishment and paired with narrow black trousers. His shoes were almost slipper-like, silver with aubergine stitching. On his head, he wore a pale lavender turban, which had a large amethyst and silver brooch pinned to its front. Only his pale skin gave away his English ancestry.

John could not look away, so entranced by the unexpected sight that he was barely aware of everyone else in the room being equally captivated.

Silence still reigned as Sherlock Holmes walked slowly across the room, looking neither to the left nor the right; as he moved, a path opening through the dancers almost magically. He did not stop until he reached the spot where his brother stood. Mr Holmes seemed to have turned to stone. The younger man pressed his hands together and presented a deep bow. Although he did not raise his voice, the pleasing baritone was audible in the utter silence. “Namaste.”

Holmes did not speak. Instead, after a few more seconds, he made a sharp gesture in the direction of the orchestra. Almost immediately, the music began once again. Dancers intruded and so John could not see what happened next. In his mind’s eye, however, he was still seeing the image of the man standing in the entrance.

“Well,” Miss Morstan said finally. “What an odd man. I heard recently that his childhood nickname was Wild Child and now I understand why.”

John had, frankly, quite forgotten she was even standing next to him. He realised also in that moment that his mouth had gone quite dry suddenly and so he swallowed some of the champagne. “A man who knows how to make an entrance, certainly.”

“Poor Mr Holmes must be furious.”

John almost smiled. “I doubt his brother cares.” He paused. “I do wonder why he chose to dress that way. Other than to irritate Mr Holmes, of course.”

Miss Morstan waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, his mother was a native, so his blood is mixed.”

John then recalled Mr Holmes saying that they were half-brothers. He acknowledged her comment with a nod, but it was absent-minded, because his gaze was focussed on the crowd as he wondered where the man in the turban had gone. It was a moment before he spotted him, walking slowly around the perimeter of the room. On first glance, he appeared to be merely on a casual stroll, taking in the sights of the ball and ignoring the whispers and staring that accompanied him. But John could see a certain stillness, a certain _alertness_ in his posture that told John there was more going on.

He felt a light touch on his arm. “I believe that refreshments are being served in the anteroom, Dr Watson. Shall we partake?”

“Hmm?” was his only reply as he realised that Sherlock Holmes was now approaching their position.

Suddenly, a pair of frighteningly intelligent green eyes met his gaze. As Holmes drew closer, John could see the touches of silver within the verdant. He could not [or would not] look away. Holmes paused in front of them, taking in Miss Morstan quickly and clearly dismissing her in a manner that was not far short of rude, before looking at John again. And not just looking at him. Measuring. Evaluating. Judging. Finally their eyes met again, held again.

John thought that he could almost see that Holmes had reached some kind of decision, foolish as that seemed. But then the man just inclined his head slightly and moved on.

“What a peculiar and rude person,” Miss Morstan said, her voice harsher than it had been. Then she seemed to throw off the mood and gave him a smile. “So, shall we have some refreshment?”

The turban was just barely visible now, which was more disappointing than it should have been. Abruptly, John realised that perhaps his behaviour was not exactly as _it_ should have been. Gawping at a stranger, whilst ignoring the lady at his elbow, was unacceptable. He turned and offered his arm to Miss Morstan. “Refreshments sound delightful,” he said with a smile.

They managed to secure a small table at which to enjoy their cucumber sandwiches and Victoria sponge cake. John especially welcomed the strong cup of tea. He forced himself to open a conversation with his companion. “What brought you all the way to India, if I may ask?”

Miss Morstan smiled. “Well, my guardian would say that I am here to find a respectable husband. I might say that I am here looking for experiences.”

“Most young ladies would want to find their experiences a little closer to home,” John pointed out.

“Most young ladies lack the courage to venture farther,” she replied with a certain sharpness. Then she smiled again, as if to take the edge out of her words. “Have you had fascinating experiences here?”

He shrugged. “I am only a doctor.”

“You are far too modest, I am certain,” came from behind him.

He recognised the voice immediately, despite only having heard it say one word from across a ballroom, so when he turned to look, it was no surprise to see Sherlock Holmes standing there. “Mr Holmes,” he said.

The man frowned. “That is my brother.”

“We have not been introduced and are certainly not on a first-name basis,” John replied, then cursed himself for sounding like a stodgy schoolmaster.

Holmes just smiled faintly. “I know that you are Dr John Watson and since I was announced only minutes ago, you know exactly who I am as well.”

“Would you like to join us?” John invited, without really intending to do so. Well, it was only polite, right?

“I would be delighted,” was the reply. “As long as Miss Morstan does not mind, of course.” There was something in his tone which clearly implied he did not really care if she minded or not.

John glanced at her in surprise. “You are acquainted?”

Her lips tightened a bit. “We were on the same ship coming from England.”

Holmes took the third chair and said, cheerfully, “We did not really hit it off, sadly.”

Sat between the two of them, John felt distinctly awkward. Also feeling very much a befuddled Englishman, he said the only thing that seemed proper. “I am going to fetch myself another cup of tea. Would anyone else like one?” The question was general, but he was looking only at Holmes, who nodded.

He was actually at the tea table, preparing two cups before he realised that he had not even asked Miss Morstan if she wanted more as well. That was not the act of a gentleman. He glanced back towards the table and saw that she was leaning towards Holmes and seemed to be berating him. Whatever she was on about, Holmes merely seemed bored by it.

By the time John returned to the table, awkwardly balancing both cups and his stick, there was no more conversation. Miss Morstan appeared to be rather sullen, using the fork to destroy her Victoria sponge, although she did smile brightly at him, just for a moment.

Holmes, meanwhile, was paying her no attention at all. Instead, he seemed to be watching something or someone across the room, his stare intent. John set one cup in front of the man and then returned to his chair.

Still without returning his gaze to the table, Holmes lifted the cup and took a sip. “Perfect,” he murmured.

“You’re quite welcome,” John said wryly, before turning to Miss Morstan. “You travelled here with a companion, I believe you said?”

She seemed to find her earlier good mood again. “Yes, indeed. My friend Miss Kennedy. She is hoping to find her brother who came over recently, but has since fallen out of touch. She very much hopes to reunite with him.”

Before John could respond to that, Holmes suddenly jumped to his feet. “Come on, John!” he said. “We have a thief to catch!” And then he took off, running out of the anteroom, back into the ballroom.

“What?” John said belatedly, slopping tea onto the white tablecloth as he set the cup down quickly.

“Honestly, that man,” Miss Morstan said. “I do wonder if he is quite sane.”

There were some screams from the ballroom. At that, John jumped to his feet and took off in the direction Holmes had gone. He pushed his way through the crowd, keeping both Holmes and the man he was apparently chasing in his sight.

A moment later, they were out on the vast lawn, the three of them, all still running. As they rounded a corner, going out of sight of those in the ballroom, the man they were chasing suddenly stopped and turned, a small pistol in one hand. Instinctively, John swerved to purposely collide with Holmes, knocking him from the line of fire. Then, with no further thought, he launched himself at the armed man and they both fell to the lawn.

It was only a moment before Holmes appeared next to them and without a word he snapped a pair of silver handcuffs around the man’s wrists. Then he used one hand to pull John to his feet. “Nicely done, John,” he said as cheerfully as if congratulating him on a well-played football match.

John could not help the small laugh he gave. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he said.

*

He was back in his bungalow, much later, before realising two things.

First, he had not returned to Miss Morstan at all after his little adventure. There was good reason for that, of course; there were a lot of details to be worked out with the police and Mr Mycroft Holmes before he was sent on his way. He glanced back once as he left and saw Sherlock [first names seemed permissible after what had happened] still in conversation with the constabulary. From appearances, he seemed to be lecturing them.

And secondly, John realised that he had left his stick lying on the floor of the ante-room.

*

3

Mycroft had changed from his formal attire into the silk pyjamas he had recently adopted in lieu of the usual nightshirt. He thought they were more comfortable and somewhat more dignified. He added his dressing gown and then went downstairs to the library. Despite the exhausting evening, he was far too restless to even contemplate sleep. He selected Hume’s _A Treatise of Human Nature_ because for some reason the topic was of particular interest on this night.

Well, he knew the reason, of course.

Mycroft needed to understand his brother. Sherlock was a mystery to him and that fact made him uneasy. No matter how he tried to put the pieces together—the infant to whom he read books in the garden, the little boy who wrote him letters about butterflies and pirates, the rebellious youth who barely escaped being sent down from school on a regular basis, the brilliant Cambridge chemistry student who threw it all away to poison his body with cocaine and chase criminals through the streets of London—they did not form a coherent picture.

And what had happened tonight was beyond belief.

Sherlock turning up dressed like the princeling of some bloody Indian state was irritating, of course, but before Mycroft could even lecture him on the subject, his brother became some kind of local hero by capturing a thief who had terrorised the city for weeks.

Mycroft sighed and opened the Hume book. A few minutes later, a sleepy looking Simmons brought him his warm milk. Mycroft sent the man to bed immediately and returned to his book.

He heard Sherlock come in soon after. Apparently noticing the light emerging from the library, he walked into the room. At some point, he had removed the turban and his curls were a rampant mess. Also, the fancy silver slippers were clearly not made to be worn during foot races with criminals.

Sherlock dropped into the leather armchair. “Well,” he said, “that was brilliant. Most fun I’ve had in ages.” He grinned fleetingly. “And I get paid for it.”

Mycroft just shook his head. Probably nothing Hume had to say was going to help with this particular human.

Sherlock peered at him. “What are you drinking?”

“Warm milk. Simmons mixes it for me. Some secret receipt.”

“Maybe he’s slowly poisoning you.”

Mycroft paused with the cup halfway to his mouth. “Simmons is not poisoning me,” he said testily. Then he took a careful sip.

Sherlock stood. “Well, brother mine, if you suddenly drop dead one of these days, I will bring your killer to justice. If someone pays me to do so, of course.” He grinned again and started for the door.

“One question, if you don’t mind.”

He paused. “What?”

“How did you convince a respectable man like Dr Watson to join you in your...escapade?”

It looked as if Sherlock actually gave the question some thought. Finally, he shrugged. “I asked him.” Then he left.

Mycroft slowly finished his milk, but he gave up on the Hume.

It did not make him happy that now he had two puzzles to ponder. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. He might hope that the good doctor would be a stable influence on his brother. But then he remembered the sight of the two of them standing over the prone figure of the thief, grinning broadly at one another.

Was it possible that the man might make Sherlock’s behaviour worse than ever?

Mycroft sighed and decided to go to bed.

*

4

Following a busy morning two days after the ball, John had no further appointments for the afternoon, so he decided to take luncheon at the club.. When he walked into the dining room, the first person he saw was Miss Morstan siting alone at a table. He felt very guilty about the way he had treated her the night before, so he wondered if she would be willing to even greet him. But when she saw him hovering, she smiled and waved him over. “Join me, if you like,” she said.

“Thank you.” He sat and ordered a glass of wine and the chicken from the waiter who appeared immediately. “I wanted to apologise for abandoning you the other night. Very rude, I know, but I thought the circumstance demanded a response.”

She cut delicately into the lamb cutlet on her plate. “Oh, I understand that boys love their little adventures.”

He was hard put not to frown at her words, which had a touch of mockery in them. “Well, we did catch a jewel thief and that counts for something, surely.”

“Oh, of course it does.” Again, her mood seemed to change quickly. “It was very brave of you, Dr Watson. Although, I did worry. You might have been injured.”

He smiled reassuringly. “Instead, it appears that my leg has magically healed itself.”

“Then at the next ball, you shall dance.” Her gaze softened. “But now that the adventure is over, it might be time to take some care for your reputation.”

“How do you mean?” He swallowed some wine.

“Well, it seems clear that Holmes, Sherlock Holmes I mean of course, has a reputation. Just consider that stunt he pulled at the ball. Embarrassing his brother by turning up in native dress. Who does something like that?”

John paused as the waiter set a plate of roast chicken and potatoes down in front of him. Once he had unfolded his serviette and picked up his fork, he considered what she had said. It was true that perhaps what Sherlock had done was not quite within the bounds of propriety, but still... “Perhaps he merely wanted to pay homage to his mother,” he suggested.

Her pink lips made a small moue of disapproval. “If he wants to get ahead in life perhaps he ought to downplay his past rather than accent it.”

As a man who had kept his own history a private thing, John did not feel as if he could criticise her words. So instead, he just smiled and said, “Well, you came here for excitement and jewel thieves running through ballrooms seem to qualify.”

She laughed softly and conceded that with a shrug. “I just want you to consider if Sherlock Holmes is the kind of person with whom you want to be associated.” Then she smiled brightly. “How is the chicken?”

“Very nice.”

That seemed to put an end to the previous conversation and the remainder of the meal was more light-hearted, with their chatter centred around local gossip.

It was over the pudding and tea that Sherlock Holmes reappeared, this time not merely in their conversation, but in person. He pulled a chair over from the next table and dropped into it, giving them a tight-lipped smile. “Afternoon.”

John could not help staring at him.

He looked rather different today, wearing a perfectly tailored suit and a deep blue cravat that accented his long neck. The biggest difference was that being without the turban revealed a mass of dark curls that any ordinary gentleman would have tamed with pomade.

John found that he did not mind at all the fact that no pomade had been applied. Then he chastised himself for the inappropriate thought. What the other man did with his hair was no business of his.

It was Miss Morstan who spoke. “One generally waits for an invitation before joining others.”

Sherlock just looked at her. Something in the way he and Miss Morstan reacted to one another made him wonder just what had happened on their voyage to India. 

After a moment, Sherlock turned his gaze onto John. “I would like your help once again, John. This evening, if convenient.” Then he shrugged. “Or even if inconvenient.”

“Another jewel thief?” John asked, probably more eagerly than was proper.

“Sadly, clever jewel thieves are thin on the ground,” Sherlock replied. “But I can offer you a possible murderer, if you like.”

Miss Morstan raised her brows. “You have an odd sense of humour, Mr Holmes.”

“Most people would say I have none, in fact,” was Sherlock’s reply.

John hid his smile.

Sherlock stood and made a mostly mocking bow. “I shall leave you to finish your meal,” he said. “And I will collect you, John, at your bungalow just after nine.” Then, with an unexpected wink in John’s direction, he was gone.

“I see you took my warning to heart,” Miss Morstan said tartly.

“Well,” John began a bit tentatively, “he did say murder.”

She just shook her head.

John glanced at his watch and started counting the hours until nine.

*

They did not catch a murderer that night.

They did, however, have a foot race through a residential neighbourhood, followed by a brief confrontation with a bewildered man who turned out not to be a killer after all and, finally, an unexpected bout of shared laughter at the end of the evening. John could not remember ever having a better time.

Sherlock’s carriage dropped him at home very late. John climbed down and then paused, not knowing what was the appropriate thing to say in the circumstance.  
 _Thank you_ was what he wanted to tell Sherlock, but that seemed a bit...odd.

Before he came to any conclusion on the proper etiquette, Sherlock took the decision out of his hands. “Until next time,” he said.

John stood where he was and watched the carriage until it turned a corner and was gone from sight; only then did he go into his bungalow. 

The smile on his face lasted even as he fell into bed and almost immediately to sleep..

**


	20. What They Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many plots and plans... and maybe a broken heart or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the next chapter in this adventure. I hope you are still enjoying it! A special thanks to those lovely souls who take the time to comment.
> 
> Now a bit of bad news. I have been editing a chapter or two ahead. But when I went to work on chapter 21, it had vanished completely. And because it is [or was!] my habit to dispose of my notes once a chapter was written, I am having to reconstruct from memory. I am going to try my best to post as usual on Sunday, but I will never offer to you a chapter that is not as good as I can get it. So fingers crossed. If I don’t show up on Sunday, know that I will post ASAP. Hope you will think it worth the wait.

It would be interesting to know  
what it is that men are most afraid of...  
Taking a new step, uttering a new word  
is what they fear most.

-Dostoyevsky, F.

1

The championship cricket match was another of those events which obliged Mycroft to leave his office and pretend to enjoy the festivities. On this occasion, he decided to host a small picnic, which would at least give him the excuse of needing to concentrate on his personal guests rather than the attendees in general. Over breakfast two days before the match, he asked Simmons to organise things. In order to cut down on any offence being taken, he decided to restrict the guests to the newest arrivals. Miss Morstan, Miss Kennedy, Sherlock and, stretching the point a bit, Dr Watson.

A cheerful foursome.

Or, at least, a moderately interesting one. With any luck at all.

Sherlock, who wandered into the dining room for a cup of tea but declined anything more, sneered at the idea of alfresco dining while watching a cricket match. Until the moment Mycroft mentioned, in an off-handed manner, that Dr Watson would be attending. Then, he snatched a piece of toast from Mycroft’s plate and breezed from the room, calling back over his shoulder, “Oh, very well, if you insist, I will attend your ridiculous picnic.”

Mycroft returned to his breakfast, smirking a bit.

*

The day of the match dawned sunny and warm. Perfect weather in which to sit on a picnic rug and watch a vigorous cricket match. If that were something one was inclined to do. Mycroft was not of that inclination, of course, but needs must. Miss Morstan and Miss Kennedy had arrived right on time, the first in a simple yet becoming muslin gown in a soft blue and the other in a similar style, but in pale yellow. They both seemed in high spirits. Dr Watson arrived next, his mood not quite as elevated, but with a smile, albeit a rather tight one, on his face. He doffed his straw topper to the ladies, shook hands with Mycroft and took his place on the rug.

“Will your brother be joining us?” he asked hopefully.

Mycroft was mildly amused by his tone; people rarely asked after Sherlock in a hopeful voice. “Yes,” he replied. “At least he lead me to believe that would be the case.” He did not miss the fact that the ladies, Miss Morstan at least, looked somewhat less delighted by that fact than did the good doctor.

The match began just as Simmons arrived, accompanied by the young household footman, each of them carrying a large wicker basket. 

Mycroft, to all appearances, was watching the match, but in reality his attention was on his fellow picnickers. Miss Morstan had edged ever so slowly closer to the good doctor. Watson gave her a smile. “How are you finding life here?” he asked.

To Mycroft, his words sounded like the professional enquiry of a physician, but Miss Morstan smiled.

“It’s all terribly exciting, isn’t it?”

Watson hummed a reply. Even from their brief acquaintance, Mycroft felt fairly certain that the doctor was not the sort to become excited over much. Although, from the evidence, chasing down a criminal seemed liable to do it.

And maybe one other thing.

Mycroft knew the moment that Sherlock arrived, because he saw it on Dr Watson’s face. Truthfully, he was taken aback by the expression, not sure what to make of it. To cover his rare moment of confusion, he adopted a tone of displeasure. “Nice of you to grace us with your company,” he said snippily to his brother.

Sherlock only bowed graciously. Clearly, he had paid several visits to the tailor since his arrival in the city. All on Mycroft’s account, of course. Today he was wearing a new linen suit the colour of clotted cream with a pale green shirt and a loosely tied silk cravat the same shade as his suit. No hat, sadly, despite several previous and pointed comments by Mycroft on the subject.

Graceful as a gazelle, Sherlock lowered himself to the blanket and smiled brightly.  
“Lovely day for a picnic,” he said to the group. It was not a sentence which Mycroft would ever have anticipated hearing from his brother’s lips. “Hello, John,” he added. Nor would Mycroft have expected the underlying warmth in that greeting.

“Sherlock,” was the reply.

Something exciting apparently happened in the match, because some muted clapping and a few murmurs of discontent rose up from the spectators, although no one on the blanket seemed to notice. Simmons poured Pimm’s No 1 cup for everyone and then began to set out plates and tableware. Mycroft raised his glass. “To Her Majesty.”

It was not an enthusiastic toast, but all the glasses were raised briefly.

Miss Morstan was the first to speak. “Perhaps I merely missed it, Dr Watson, but I did not hear any reports on the murderer you went chasing after the other night. Do tell us about your adventure.”

Mycroft was very familiar with the smile she gave the good doctor; it was the same one he used on recalcitrant ambassadors. Just before he humiliated them. Or, possibly, eviserated them. He was beginning to wonder about the charming Miss Morstan and made a mental note to set a few enquiries in motion.

Dr Watson delayed his response long enough to take a chicken sandwich from the tray Simmons was passing. “Well,” he said then, “we did not actually catch a killer.” Then he glanced at Sherlock, who was frowning at the plain bread-and-butter sandwich he had selected. “But it was a rather grand adventure anyway,” he said.

Probably only Mycroft noticed the faint twitch of Sherlock’s lips.

Or, Mycroft suddenly realised, just perhaps one other person noticed.

“Well, as long as you boys had a good time,” Miss Morstan said.

The manner in which she spoke reminded Mycroft of a most charming French woman he had met several years ago. They had shared a delightful luncheon, talking of art and literature. It was only later than she was revealed as an agent of German espionage who was suspected of at least two murders. Mycroft considered the whole unhappy event a learning experience. A few enquiries were definitely called for in the case of Miss Morstan.

There was a pause in conversation as everyone ate sandwiches, boiled eggs, and cheese. They all, save Sherlock, at least made a pretence of watching the match for a few moments. Several people came by to greet Mycroft, although he suspected most of them just wanted a close-up look at his wayward brother. Miss Kennedy exchanged a few soto-voiced comments to her companion, who did not seem amused. Mycroft found the interplay between the two women of mild interest.

Simmons brought tea from the clubhouse and served the strawberry tarts and lemon sponge. It was somehow gratifying to see that one thing remained consistent through the years and that was Sherlock’s love of puddings. He ate several tarts and a large slice of the sponge.

When the picnic was finished, Simmons poured more Pimm’s and then departed.

Sherlock took a swallow of his drink. “Miss Morstan, I have been meaning to ask you what has become of your friend Mr Moran. He seems to have vanished since we all arrived in Calcutta.”

Miss Morstan glanced at him, but before she spoke, Miss Kennedy did. “Mr Moran is kindly helping me in the search for my brother. He seems quite optimistic.”

Miss Morstan was still looking at Sherlock. “You have something in common with my friend. He is actually her half-brother.”

“How delightful,” Sherlock murmured. “Half-brothers are such a blessing.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured.

Only Dr Watson was amused by the exchange. Sherlock seemed pleased by that amusement.

The remainder of the afternoon passed slowly, with only occasional conversation. The match ended at some point, no doubt pleasing some and and distressing others. As was his duty, Mycroft had to rise and say the appropriate words before awarding the shiny silver cup to the victors.

Soon after that, the two women stood, extended thanks to Mycroft for such a pleasant interlude and prepared to depart. Miss Morstan looked at John, who had risen as well. “Would it be terribly forward of me to ask you to accompany us to our bungalow? The streets will be so crowded at this hour.”

John hesitated, shooting one quick glance at Sherlock, who was apparently ignoring everyone, including him. The sigh John gave was faint, but then he smiled. “It would be my pleasure to share a carriage with you.” He turned to Mycroft. “Thank you, Mr Holmes for the pleasant afternoon.” He looked towards Sherlock. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

The only reply was a nod.

Watson waited another moment and then escorted the young women away.

When the three of them had gone, it was Mycroft’s turn to sigh. “You look like a child whose favourite toy has been stolen away.”

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, glaring down at him. “You are ridiculous,” he snapped. Then he stalked off, radiating displeasure. The display reminded Mycroft of the adolescent boy he had encountered upon his return to Calcutta.

Mycroft stayed where he was, waiting for the carriage to return. If he had assumed or hoped at least that it would be easier to deal with Sherlock in person, that notion had been dashed. Apparently, for a young man like his brother, there were dangers everywhere. And not all of them came from a needle or the machinations of the criminal class.

Mycroft did not like feeling out of his depth.

*

2

Sherlock’s restlessness made staying in his room unbearable. Instead, he was stalking the corridors of the house, bursting in to one room, finding no peace there and exiting almost immediately. The second time he entered Mycroft’s study [which he still thought of as Father’s study] his brother finally reacted. “For pity’s sake, Sherlock,” he burst out. “Would you please settle somewhere? You are behaving like some malignant spirit haunting the place.”

“Malignant spirit?” He gave a short snort of laughter. “It does not surprise me, however, that you would be haunted.”

“We all have our ghosts, Sherlock.”

A bit surprised by his brother’s serious tone, but having no desire to talk about it, Sherlock instead threw himself into a chair and glared at Mycroft. It was odd to see him without a waistcoat, cravat and jacket, even here at home. But now he had rolled the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow and had revealed a full-length mirror from behind one of the panels. Even more oddly, he was holding the damned ubiquitous brolly in his hand. “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, when he could not deduce it.

Mycroft smiled faintly. “One must practice some skills frequently or risk losing them.”

Sherlock raised a brow. “Oh, brother mine, I think you have the skill of walking around like a pompous arse with an umbrella in your hand down perfectly. No more practice needed.”

Still smiling, Mycroft pressed two fingers against the handle and then slowly extracted a shining silver blade. He then dropped the umbrella to the carpet and assumed the opening position. “Simmons insists that I keep up with it. He has a conspiratorial turn of mind.”

Sherlock snorted. “Making him the perfect valet for you.”

Mycroft eyed himself in the mirror. “Did you not have lessons as a child?”

Now Sherlock slouched indolently in the chair. “Oh, Father tried. I preferred the violin.”

Mycroft was slowly working his way through the attack regime.. High outside. Low outside. High inside. Low inside. Then again, as Sherlock watched. “I would think that perhaps an adeptness with a sharp blade would be more useful in your particular...profession that the ability to wield a violin bow,” he pointed out.

“How kind of you to care,” Sherlock said tartly. “But rest assured that I am highly skilled in several of the martial arts.”

Mycroft paused in the midst of a jab. “I might suggest, in that case, that you utilise those skills the next time you are attacked in a dark alleyway.”

Sherlock frowned at him. He watched Mycroft practise for several minutes without speaking, then said, “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Ask away.” Mycroft made several quick and overly theatrical moves.

“Does the name Moriarty mean anything to you?”

For just a moment, Mycroft was still. “Why are you asking? Then he executed several quick, slashing moves.

“The name came up when I was in Ireland on that case for you. Which made me curious.”

He could tell that Mycroft was deciding what to say, which immediately made him suspicious of whatever would emerge.

“I believe the name has been mentioned in some dispatches on the Irish problem,” Mycroft finally said in a far-too-casual voice. “But since that is not in my purview, I paid little attention.”

Sherlock didn’t even try to hold back the sneer. “Well, since it was clearly some of his hirelings who beat me in that Dublin alleyway, I take a greater interest in the subject.”

“Ireland is a very long way from here.”

“And yet I have travelled that distance with very little effort. No doubt others could do the same.”

“Why would Moriarty trouble himself to come to India?”

Sherlock only shrugged. Then he crashed his head against the cushion behind him. “Good god, I wish something would happen.”

“What kind of something?” Apparently finished, Mycroft busied himself restoring the sword to its place in the umbrella.

“Something interesting,” Sherlock said.

“I imagine that any sort of little adventure in which you and Dr Watson could run about like characters in an issue of Boy’s Own would suit you,” Mycroft said drily, carefully rolling his sleeves back to their proper position.

“That’s none of your business,” Sherlock snapped.

“It might be. I do worry about you.”

Sherlock stood up from the chair. “Sadly, you long ago missed your opportunity to worry about me at a time when it might actually have helped. Now, it is only annoying.” He flashed a quick, insincere grin and left the room.

It had been his intention to go to his room, but suddenly the thought of sitting there staring at his butterfly collection or the ceiling was unpalatable. Instead, he found himself at the front door. Simmons was hovering, for some reason. “Are you going out, sir?” he asked. “Shall I summon the carriage?”

“I prefer to walk,” Sherlock replied, ignoring the hat which Simmons was holding out.

He had really not thought of any destination, at least not consciously, but it was not a great surprise to find himself going in the direction of John Watson’s bungalow. It was really too late for a social call and certainly not an acceptable hour to just turn up at someone’s door unexpectedly and uninvited. Somehow, though, he didn’t think that John would mind.

Or perhaps he just hoped that would be the case.

There was no logical reason why he should crave John Watson’s company so much. Sherlock knew a great deal about cravings. Sometimes he fought them and sometimes he gave in, but the choice was always his. It went against his grain that in this instance it felt as if all the power lay with another person. But, fight it as he would, Sherlock felt as if he had been lost the moment he saw John standing in the corner at the damned ball.

The emotion was unfamiliar, but, surprisingly, he accepted it. Felt, in fact, as if he had been waiting for it, without really knowing what ‘it’ was. So late in the evening, he found himself walking through the darkness to the doctor’s bungalow.

He knew that John, whether from a thrifty nature or the desire for solitude, kept no live-in servants, only day help, so he was prepared to have the doctor himself open the door to Sherlock’s knocking. Perhaps he was not quite prepared for the door to be opened by a John Watson in a quickly-tied dressing gown and with hair that had been mussed in a way that indicated a man who had retired for the night. It took a moment before Sherlock could speak. “Oh, I have awakened you. My sincere apologies.”

John was clearly a bit flustered. He ran a hand through his hair in a hopeless attempt to smooth it. “Oh, Sherlock. I assumed it was some medical crisis.” Then he narrowed his eyes and ran his gaze over Sherlock, apparently looking for blood and bruises or possibly even broken bones. “But apparently it is not.”

“No, no. I’m fine. I was simply...” He had no idea how to finish that sentence.

After a moment, John smiled. “Well, as you’re here, whatever the reason, you might as well come in.” He gestured towards the sitting room, before closing the door and following Sherlock into the room. Then he looked a bit awkward. “I should go change.”

“Please don’t,” Sherlock said. “Or I shall feel even more guilty for disturbing your rest merely on a whim.”

John walked over to the makeshift bar in the corner and poured two healthy glasses of a good Islay single malt before joining Sherlock on the sofa. He handed a glass to Sherlock and they toasted one another. John’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “I have clearly misjudged you, Sherlock.”

“How so?”

“I never thought of you as a man who would act on a whim. Not the logical Holmes.”

“Perhaps there are unrevealed parts of my nature,” Sherlock said. The whisky was going down very smoothly.

“Then maybe you should be known as a man of mystery.”

“Ha,” Sherlock replied. “Someone once accused me of loving mysteries, but that was wrong. I cannot bear them. Which is why I work so hard to solve them.”

They contemplated that for a time as they finished the whisky. Then Sherlock got up and went to refill both glasses. He brought the bottle back to the sofa with him as well.

“Luckily, I have no medical duties tomorrow,” John commented after several more sips.

“Life is very dull,” Sherlock pointed out, apropos of nothing.

“Less so since Mr Sherlock Holmes arrived in Calcutta.”

“You think so?” Sherlock sounded pleased. Then he frowned. “I didn’t want to come here, you know. My odious brother forced me to do so.”

“Would you be angry if I said that I am rather glad he did?”

“Are you? Why are you?”

John poured two more portions of whisky. “Because we would not have met one another if he had not.”

Sherlock brooded into his glass for a time. “We should have met in London. That would have been best.” He looked up and grinned suddenly. “The adventures we could have had.”

John leant back, resting his head against the cushion. “Tell me one. One of the adventures you had.”

Sherlock relaxed as well, considering his words, then began to speak. “The client was the proprietor of a rather well-known brothel in Soho. She was convinced that one of the clients was blackmailing others who patronised her house...” Sherlock rambled on with the story until he became aware that John’s eyes had closed and that he was making soft snoring sounds. For some reason, the sight made Sherlock smile. He stopped talking and just watched John sleep, until a gentle curtain of darkness slipped over him as well.

It was soon after dawn when Sherlock awoke to the sensation of something tickling his nose. That something turned out to be John’s hair. Somehow in the night they had moved closer, until their heads were resting together. So close that John’s soft breath seemed to be caressing Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock froze. He did not think that John would appreciate this situation. It might even anger him, which could simply not be borne. After one more moment of illicit pleasure, Sherlock began to move, very slowly, extricating himself from an unintended near-embrace.

Slowly, slowly.

It took several minutes, but finally he was able to scoot away from John and then stand. The next time they met, he would simply say that once John had fallen asleep [in the middle of a most interesting story, he could add indignantly] Sherlock had slipped away and gone home.

That would work.

Mycroft was too bloody conscientious.

Why else would the man be having his breakfast at this ridiculous hour?

Sherlock, taking the shortcut through the dining room, did not expect to find his brother already up, dressed for work and looking far too alert. Sherlock had to admit that he himself did not feel at the top of his game. Apparently, after he had fallen asleep on John’s sofa, he had tipped his glass and spilled whisky down the front of his waistcoat. As a consequence, he reeked. His hair was a tangle and no doubt his eyes were bloodshot. He thought they definitely _felt_ bloodshot.

Mycroft took a bite of his kedgeree. “Goodness, Sherlock. I assumed you were safely tucked up in your bed,” he said blandly.

Sherlock wondered if a slice of dry toast would mend the queasiness in his stomach. Worth a try. He picked up a piece and nibbled it carefully. “Nonsense,” he said after a moment. “I feel quite sure that the good Simmons would have told you that I went out and did not return.” The toast did seem to be helping, so he took another piece.

Mycroft did not deny his words. “A case, was it?”

Sherlock only smiled and finished the toast. “Well, set your mind at ease, dear brother. I am about to be safely tucked up in my bed.” He turned to leave the room.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly.

He paused, but did not turn.

“Be careful.”

Sherlock did not know how to respond to that. So he continued out of the room and went to bed.

3

The truth was that John had not been asleep

He had actually awoken just before Sherlock began edging away, excruciatingly slowly, from John’s body. For reasons that escaped him, John did not open his eyes, did not say a word. He just kept his breathing even and both his eyes and his mouth closed.

When he finally did stir, long after Sherlock had departed, John felt the effects of every drop of whisky he had consumed the night before. Everything hurt, from the roots of his hair to his toenails. His mouth tasted like dirty stockings and his head pounded. He got up from the sofa and walked unsteadily to his bedroom, where he fell back onto the bed he had left when Sherlock Holmes pounded on his door.

It was only to be hoped that no one had seen the man leave at dawn.

John pulled the blanket over his head and went back to sleep.

Perhaps it was unsurprising that the dream came. The one in which he exchanged one long look with Sholto just before the man took the bullet and fell over dead. Well, dead, but still, apparently, able to speak, his voice recognisable. _The wages of sin, John Watson, your secret passion brought grief to us both. Take care, Watson, take care._

John woke up a gasp. He wiped the moisture from his face and curled into a ball under the blanket, trying to calm both his breathing and his galloping heart. Finally, he fell asleep again.

The next time he woke, he could hear the housekeeper tidying in the kitchen. John got up and made a hasty toilette, dressing so that he might run a few errands. The admirable Sahana, having heard him moving about, had tea and toast waiting. She was probably curious, but all she did was wash the two glasses and put the empty whisky bottle into the rubbish bin.

John finished his breakfast and left the bungalow to do his errands, determined to put the nightmares behind him. A man should not be shaken by the ephemeral images that came in his sleep. Daylight killed the spectres.

His first stop was at the bank, to have a chat with the manager and then he went on to the tobacco shop for a pouch of his favourite shag. It was at the bookstore, as he browsed through the shelves in search of adventure tales, that he glanced up and through the window saw Miss Morstan and Miss Kennedy entering the tea shop across the road.

Suddenly, he knew what had to be done. Miss Morstan was a pleasant, intelligent woman and he would enter into a light courtship. That would stop all the confusing emotions he had felt upon waking up wrapped around Sherlock Holmes. Those emotions were dangerous and deadly and not to be indulged in. Yes, courting Miss Morstan would solve his problem quite nicely. He quickly paid for a copy of _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,_ of which he had heard, but never gotten around to reading and headed over to the tea shop.

John pretended surprise when Miss Morstan called his name and invited him to join them.

The three of them passed a pleasant hour with light conversation, before John offered to walk them home. Miss Kennedy stayed a few steps behind, apparently out of discretion. “We might have dinner one evening,” John suggested as they strolled along. “Perhaps at the Great Eastern Hotel.”

“That would be lovely. If you are not engaged this evening,” she began.

But before she could finish, John saw Sherlock Holmes hurrying towards them, an eager expression on his face. “John,” he said in an excited tone, “there’s a case! I was on my way to your house when I saw you. What luck!”

“What luck,” Miss Morstan said acidly. “We are making dinner plans, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock ignored her. “Blackmail, John! Blackmailers are the lowest of the low, in my opinion.” He leant closer to John’s ear. “We get to do some housebreaking,” he whispered.

John looked from Sherlock to Miss Morstan. He knew what he _should_ do, which was not what he really _wanted_ to do. He remembered his determination to court the woman and separate himself from the danger, the lovely, addictive danger that took the form of Sherlock Holmes. Who was gazing at him now with something like fragile hope in his eyes.

And perhaps it meant losing his soul, but how could he crush that fragile hope? He would just be careful not to indulge in any more fanciful thoughts. Besides, there was a crime and it had to be right to do what he could to insure justice. It would all be fine.

John turned to Miss Morstan. “Sadly, my dear lady, I am engaged this evening. But I would be quite delighted and honoured to dine with you tomorrow evening, if you would be so kind as to join me.”

She smiled, although he did not miss the ice in her gaze. “I will send a message tomorrow morning if I am free for dinner.” She looped her arm through Miss Kennedy’s. “Enjoy your adventure, Dr Watson.” She said nothing to Sherlock before walking away.

Sherlock was practically bouncing on his toes with excitement. “Come on, John! No time to waste.” He turned and dashed off.

John followed him.  
*

There was, indeed, housebreaking.

Sherlock turned out to be a dab hand at getting around locks meant to keep him out, which was perhaps not as surprising as it should have been. John’s duty, apparently, was to keep a watch on the quiet road and prevent an interruption. At one point, he could not help whispering, “Who lives here? And are you sure that no one is at home?”

There was a pause, then the lock clicked and Sherlock gave a smirk of satisfaction. “The house belongs to a repellant creature named Milverton. The blackmailer. But the only one at home tonight is the housemaid and she is tucked away in her room at the top of the house. Even if she hears anything, she has been advised it would be best and safest to remain in her room.” He pushed the door open and stepped inside, pulling John with him.

John closed the door again. A single lamp illuminated the foyer. “Who would have advised her to do so?”

Sherlock smiled. “The friendly young man she encountered at the front gate this morning.” His voice changed just slightly, losing its usual haughty tone, gaining instead the harder timbre of a working man. “I hears things, miss, and it would be terrible if something happened to a lovely young girl like you.”

John blinked at him. “You flirted with that maid to get her to ignore whatever happened?”

Sherlock was already going into the library just off the foyer, lighting a wall lamp as he entered. He glanced at John. “Admittedly, I am not the expert at such things that you are, but it seems to have worked.”

John was not quite sure what he meant by that, but now was not the time to discuss it.

Sherlock gave a careful look around the room and then approached one painting, a rather mediocre landscape. He pulled it away from the wall and revealed a safe.

“I suppose safe-breaking is also amongst your skills,” John said.

“I suppose,” Sherlock murmured absently as he went to work.

Before he managed to get the safe open, however, they both heard the front door open and close, followed by footsteps that were definitely coming towards the library. Sherlock pushed the painting back against the wall, extinguished the lamp and grabbed John’s hand. He moved quickly to conceal them both behind a screen that concealed a well-stocked liquor cabinet.

A moment later, the door opened and a stocky, well-dressed man just passed middle-age entered. Milverton, John assumed and he could only hope that the ‘repellant creature’ didn’t decide to have a drink. Sherlock was still holding onto his hand and they were standing so close together that it reminded John of how they had woken up that very morning. It seemed a very long time ago now. They both watched the blackmailer through a small hinged opening in the screen.

Milverton headed for the safe and in only a moment had it open. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a thick envelope.

It was then that the woman stepped out from behind the heavy drapery that covered a french door on the other side of the room. She was dressed all in black and heavily-veiled, holding a small silver pistol in one hand. It was aimed directly at Milverton.

John reacted instinctively, ready to step out, but Sherlock held him back, whispering “Wait” directly into his ear.

“I will have those papers, please,” the woman said in a hard voice. The gun never wavered.

Milverton had the gall to laugh as he shoved the envelope into the safe.“Oh, madame, I never negotiate at gunpoint. So very gauche.”

She never moved. “Your mistake is in thinking that this is a negotiation.”

Milverton stepped towards the desk. “We are both civilised people, madame.”

“You flatter yourself.”

Milverton was reaching towards a drawer when she fired. One bullet. It struck him squarely in the forehead. He had only a moment to look surprised before toppling over like a felled tree.

There was a moment of silence, before the veiled woman looked towards the screen. “You might as well come out, Mr Holmes,” she said, sounding remarkably calm for a woman who had just killed someone.

Sherlock finally released John’s hand and they both stepped from behind the screen. “This was not the plan, Lady Emma,” he said, equally casual in his tone.

“It was not _your_ plan,” was her reply. She walked over and took the envelope from the safe. “I will bid you farewell now. Your cheque will be sent.”

“I did nothing to earn it,” he objected.

“You were here. As my guarantee. I had faith that if the monster had gained the advantage you would have acted to defend me. That alone justifies the payment,” She tucked the envelope away in the folds of her dress and slipped out through the same door which she had used to enter.

Before John could say anything, there was noise above them to prove that the flirted-with housemaid had her limit and apparently the sound of a gunshot was it. Her screams would surely rouse the neighbours and result in the constabulary being summoned. “We have to get out of here,” John finally said.

Sherlock was at the safe, removing its contents and stuffing everything into his pockets. Somewhere nearby, a dog began to bark. 

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, yes,” he said. Finally, he turned, grabbed John’s hand again and dragged him through the same window Lady Emma had used. 

They ran.

John had no idea that there was a Chinese cafe where one could eat at even the latest hour. Or, at least, Sherlock Holmes could. The owner greeted him with a voluble flood of Mandarin, to which Sherlock responded in kind.

Very soon, they were at a table and a huge meal was in front of them. They both ate far too much and talked and laughed for the next hour. As he was finishing up the last of his rice with prawns, John looked across the table and saw Sherlock smiling at him in a way that John somehow knew the man had never smiled at anyone else.

It was at that moment he knew. He understood the truth.

And it terrified him.

Immediately, he stood. “I best go,” he said hoarsely. “Work in the morning.”

The immediate disappearance of Sherlock’s smile broke John’s heart, but all he could do was turn and flee the cafe. He did not, could not, look back.

**


	21. I Will Forget The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A missing secretary. Valuable postage stamps. John is either noble or an idiot. And cocaine inhalers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here is the reconstructed chapter that went missing. I hope you will enjoy it and that it might bring some relief in these perilous times. Since I am in the ‘social distancing’ phase, all on my own in my condo, any comments you might want to send along would be most especially welcome.

Heart! We will forget him...  
You may forget the warmth he gave,  
I will forget the light.

-Dickinson, E.

1

Sometimes the warm milk did not really work as expected.

Usually that happened after a day which had been particularly difficult. Case in point: today.

Hayes, his secretary, had failed to show up for work, which was unprecedented. The young man was stodgy and had very little spirit, as well as being a nervous sort. But his work was meticulous and his promptness legendary. So it was both worrisome and irritating when he did not arrive on time. Or at all.

A messenger was sent round to his rooms, but there was no sign of the young man and the landlady could offer no assistance.

Mycroft decided that he would give Hayes this single day; possibly some personal matter had arisen and all would be resolved by tomorrow. At that moment, one of the clerks brought in the mail and dispatches and offered to bring his tea. Without being asked, he also brought two ginger biscuits. The efficiency was reassuring, briefly.

Sadly, his irritation continued with the opening of the dispatch box. Mulberry continued to be obstinate about taking many of Mycroft’s suggestions onboard. Day was increasingly pre-occupied with the damned Irish problem. And Victoria Regina seemed to feel that Mycroft Holmes was her personal attaché to the entire bloody Empire. 

As the day went on, the little irritations kept piling up until Mycroft was close to starting a war just because he could. Instead, he decided to absent himself from it all and simply go home. As he was leaving, the same efficient clerk handed him a few last minute memorandums. “Thank you,” Mycroft said testily, realising that he still didn’t know the young man’s name, but not caring enough to ask.

When he arrived home, he had Simmons pour him a whisky and then went out into the back garden, taking his binoculars with him. There was no expectation of spotting anything unique, but sometimes just watching an ordinary Sunbird or Rose Ringed Parrot flutter around the garden was soothing.

Just below the surface of all the bothersome events of the day there was one more worry niggling at him. Had he made a grievous mistake in demanding that Sherlock leave London and come to Calcutta? He had merely been trying to follow Father’s dictate, although why he would trouble to oblige the old man even after death was a mystery. He knew very well that he could have tweaked the bloody will and given Sherlock his inheritance.

But he had not done that.

Why?

Mycroft made a soft hiss of disgust at his own sentimental meanderings.

He lifted the binoculars and watched the leisurely journey of a Red Vented Bulbul around the garden. 

Sometimes, he wondered what his life would have been like had he pursued another path. He could have become an ornithologist. Spent his days watching birds. How pleasant that would have been. But what kind of mess would the Empire be in without his hand increasingly on various levers? That might be an arrogant way to think, but still not untrue.

After a few more minutes, he swallowed the last of the whisky and put the binoculars back into their case. His desk inside the house was no less cluttered than the one at Government House with paperwork that needed to be read and acted upon and that would keep him busy until dinner.

It was not until the pudding was served that Mycroft realised that he had not seen Sherlock since breakfast the previous day. Apparently, there had been a case, which Mycroft had an uneasy suspicion might have had something to do with the murder of a man named Milverton. But his sources reported that Milverton was a notorious blackmailer, so there was little regret and actually some subtle joy that he was dead. The investigation would go no further, which Mycroft thought was for the best. 

But that case was over and there was still no sign of Sherlock.

*

So, given the day that he had suffered through, it was no real surprise that even after the last of his warm milk had been sipped, Mycroft was still lying wide awake in his bed. Finally, he sighed and decided to fetch a book from the library, hopefully something somniferous. But as he passed the window, a flickering light down in the garden caught his eye.

He paused to look and realised that there was a small fire burning in the corner, being tended, of course, by Sherlock.

Mycroft stopped just long enough to slide both feet into his bedroom slippers, before going downstairs and then out into the garden. Sherlock did not glance around when he approached, but just kept feeding papers into the flames.

Still without looking at him, Sherlock spoke quietly. “The last time I did this I was burning every letter you wrote me.” There was no emotion in his voice.

Mycroft knew without asking what had prompted that long-ago fire. “I was young,” he said. “And not especially wise about some things.” Which was, he thought a reasonable explanation, especially from a man who so rarely ever had to explain himself.

Sherlock shrugged. “It was not my first abandonment. Or my last. Probably I should thank you for the lesson in reality.”

Mycroft did not respond immediately.“What are you burning tonight?” he finally said.

“Secrets. Just secrets.” He gave a sidewise glance at Mycroft. “I didn’t read them. They were not my secrets.”

_Milverton._ Mycroft had to ask. “Did you kill him?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. And I will not tell you who did.”

“Fine.” He studied Sherlock more carefully in the light cast by the flames. There was something not quite right about him. His face was expressionless, his movements tight, as if he were somehow afraid to let himself relax his guard. “Well, I shall leave you to it, then. Don’t set the entire neighbourhood aflame.” He waited for a snort of derision or a sharpish comment, but nothing came.

Mycroft went back to his bedroom, although he did not expect sleep to come any more easily now than it had earlier. He extinguished the lamp and went to stand by the window. Below, Sherlock tossed one more bundle of papers into the fire and then stood back to watch, arms crossed in front, shoulders hunched as if to ward off a blow, although Mycroft was fairly certain that the blow had already been delivered.

Mycroft thought, unexpectedly, that his brother looked like the loneliest man in the world.

Even more unexpectedly, Mycroft felt an inexplicable urge to weep.

He did not do so, of course. Instead, he went to bed. The weight of the Empire would be upon him again in a few hours and he needed to be prepared to bear it.

*

2

John Watson had always rather prided himself on his ability to set aside his unhappy condition, his personal problems, so as to concentrate on the matter at hand. As a boy, he could ignore the drunken ravings of his father by curling up on the lumpy pallet to read, because learning was important. Later, he could overcome the slights and petty cruelties of those around him as he worked to rise from the gutter to a place of respectability. He did not think that it was overly proud to credit himself with having a strong character.

Of course, it was also true that, like all humans, he was not perfect. John Hamish Watson was a flawed man and he knew it. He could be quick to anger and slow to forgive. Sometimes the same demons that had destroyed the old man had their way with him. On occasion, he could be a bit cruel to those who thwarted him. But all of those petty sins indubitably paled in the face of his deeply hidden true nature.

A nature that the laws of man and God shouted against. That decent society condemned. That he himself was terrified by.

All he could ever do was call upon that strong character on which he had always depended and try to do what was proper.

It all became so difficult, however, every time he remembered the smile on Sherlock Holmes’s face that night. Every time he remembered how quickly that smile had died at John’s feeble and cowardly words.

But there was no choice if he wanted to protect himself and also to protect Sherlock. The memory of Sholto haunted the edge of all his thoughts. All he could do, it seemed, was to keep very busy and try not to think about any of it.

So he kept his regular surgery hours, dealing with all the bored wives, the crotchety retired bureaucrats, the piles and the female complaints. He smiled and he consoled and, occasionally, he dealt with an actual medical crisis. Keeping busy was good, especially on a day like this one.

Reluctant as he was to admit it it, there was one more thing that he could do.

It was an act of quiet desperation and he despised himself for giving in to that desperation. But he did it anyway.

He wrote a careful note and sent it off between patients, during his morning tea. An answer was returned quite promptly, which gave him a stab of guilt, but he merely read the acceptance of his invitation, then folded the lightly scented paper and put it into his pocket.

*

They had a very nice table in the dining room at the Great Eastern Hotel.

It was next to a window so they could watch the setting sun, yet also provided a good view of the room itself, which was filled with nicely dressed, respectable people enjoying the evening. And John felt that he and Miss Morstan fit in perfectly. The doctor in his best suit, having spent the day tending to the ills of the British community, now dining with a lovely young woman. Her hair was up in an elaborate style that flattered her gamin face; her dress complimented the English rose complexion. She smiled easily and listened to him with a flattering attention, occasionally inserting a witty or astute comment,

It was quite perfect.

And John Watson could not bear it.

Fortunately, he was not unfamiliar with hiding from others the unbearable things that caused him pain. So he smiled and sipped the wine and enjoyed both the beef and the chutney served with it. The evening looked like being a success.

She was relating some amusing anecdotes from her voyage over when John let his gaze wander a bit. Half-listening, he watched the darkened street scene and it was then that he saw a thin shape lurking in the shadows. A tall figure topped by curls. His first thought was that the sight stirred some distant memory that slipped away before it fully took shape. His second thought was _Sherlock_.

“What are you looking at?” Miss Morstan asked a bit tetchily, following his gaze.

John blinked and the figure was gone. Or had it ever been there at all? “Nothing,” he said quickly, smiling at her.

Her gaze was sharp, but then she returned the smile.

They ordered tea and blancmange.

“So,” Miss Morstan said then, “you haven’t mentioned your friend Sherlock Holmes this evening. Have you not had any more adventures?”

John’s mouth went dry, so he took a swallow of his tea. He cleared his throat. “Oh, I have been far too busy for that sort of thing.”

She raised a brow. “So no more chasing after the villains of Calcutta?”

He just shook his head and hoped that she would change the subject.

Hope was such a fragile thing.

“Well, I think that is very wise of you. As I said before, your reputation is important and a man like that...”

John tried not to bristle.

Miss Morstan leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “I did not like to say anything before, but...” She bit her lip. “He made an inappropriate advance on me during that voyage, one night on the deck. I, of course, rebuffed him immediately. That is why we are so cool to one another.”

It was a shocking tale, to be sure.

And John was ashamed that his first reaction to it was to doubt what she was saying. Why would a woman reveal such a thing if it were not the truth? But the man he knew seemed most unlikely to do such a thing. He did not feel comfortable confronting her on the subject, however. Instead, he just summoned the waiter to pay for the meal and they left the hotel.

The carriage he had ordered was waiting for them and once they were settled in, Miss Morstan spoke again. “I do understand why you enjoyed the association with Holmes. I think you are a man who craves adventure.”

Looking out of the carriage at the nighttime city, John gave only a soft hum in reply.  
Unexpectedly, a soft hand rested on his arm. He turned his head to look at her.

“Dr Watson, I find you a most interesting person. Frankly, just the sort of man I had hoped to meet when I fled London.”

“Really?” he murmured.

She did not reply, but kept her hand on his arm until the carriage drew to a stop in front of her house. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

John was not an inexperienced youth, so he could read the invitation in her eyes. And, undeniably, it was flattering. But he was not especially tempted. He gave a brief laugh and pleaded a busy morning at the surgery. She then bid him a goodnight and he continued on his way.

Once at home, he did indeed have a nightcap, one shot of whisky, and then went to bed.

He dreamt, of course.

But not the dreams that he might have expected. There was no battlefield, no dying comrades, no blood or terror. Instead, his dream self was back in London, standing in a dark corner behind St. Barts, enjoying a brief respite from the hectic ward. As he stood there, he watched a wiry young man, with a head full of curls, escaping through a window, lowering himself to the ground and then vanishing into the night.

In the dream, though, John did not just stand there and watch him go.

Instead, he ran after him.

*

It was between patients once again the next morning when John sat at his desk and wrote another note. He had decided late in the night, after the dream, that he at least owed such a courtesy to Sherlock Holmes. Once the difficult words were put down on paper, John folded it into an envelope and summoned a messenger to deliver it.

He could only hope that the terrible emptiness he felt inside would diminish over time. Somehow, he doubted that. He would learn to live with it.

He _would_ learn to live with not having what his heart wanted, because it was impossible. It had been a good decision to write the note at the surgery, because with another patient to see, he could not rage against Fate as he so fervently wanted to do.

*

3

It was becoming clear that no matter how late one arrived home there was little chance of avoiding Mycroft Holmes. Did the man never sleep? And deliberately avoiding the library or the sitting room did not afford one any greater chance of being left alone.

Because the man would just follow one to his bedroom.

Mycroft stood in the doorway. “I was not aware that you had a case at the moment,” he commented casually.

Sherlock had already removed his jacket and waistcoat. When Mycroft showed no inclination at all to leave, Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Unless you were merely out socially, of course.”

He hung his shirt carefully.

“I saw a lovely Red Vented Bulbul recently,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked at him finally. “You still do that? Watch the birds?”

“When I can. It rests my mind.”

Since Mycroft still showed no sign of leaving, Sherlock undid his trousers and let them fall. In only his black China silk short drawers, he finished putting everything else away, then sat on his bed. Surely Mycroft would take the hint now. Unhappily, however, instead of departing, Mycroft came further into the room and walked over to stare at the butterfly collection. “You ought to take up a pastime.”

“I have a pastime,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes, yes. Solving mysteries, I know.”

There was a pause.

Sherlock was not really intending to speak, but the words came out anyway. “Someday I intend to cultivate bees,” he said.

Mycroft glanced at him. “Do you indeed? Interesting.”

“When I am old,” Sherlock clarified.

“I am glad that you intend to live to a great age,” Mycroft said. “Appearances frequently to the contrary.”

Sherlock gave an indifferent shrug.

Finally Mycroft seemed ready to get to the point. “I have something I would like you to look at,” he said. “If you can.”

Sherlock relaxed back against the wicker headboard. “What? And don’t be boring.”

“My secretary has vanished without a word. He is a very reliable young man, so i am quite concerned.”

Sherlock remembered the nervous chap he had seen at Mycroft’s office. “Perhaps he just needed a holiday from you,” he said.

Instead of responding, Mycroft reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. “All the details are in here.” When Sherlock did not move, he sighed and stepped to the bed, setting the envelope down.

“Fine. My usual rates will apply.”

Mycroft made a sound of impatience. “You needn’t say that every time.”

“Just want to avoid confusion. I do not offer a reduction for friends or family.”

“I imagine that issue mustn’t come up terribly often,” Mycroft responded with an unpleasant smile. Then the smile faded. He took a breath. “You received a note today.” He took another envelope from his pocket and set it on the bed as well.

Sherlock did not even look at it.

“I will bid you a good night then.” Mycroft said at last. He closed the door as he left.

Sherlock finally fixed his eyes on the envelope that had come for him. Although he did not recognise the hand which had addressed it, he knew instinctively from whom the note had come. Instead of reaching for the envelope, however, he mulled over the question of how he had failed before this to get a look at John Watson’s writing. An unforgivable oversight. Well, at least he had an example now. For whatever good it would do him.

Before he could bring himself to actually read whatever John had written, although he was certain that he already knew, Sherlock reached into the drawer of his bedside table and took out one of the nasal inhalers he had brought from London. It was not the best way to get cocaine into his system, but it was handy and easy to hide from Mycroft. He ignored the chemist’s recommendation of usage, of course.

After several deep inhalation’s, Sherlock reached for the envelope and opened it.

_Sherlock,_

_I am writing this note to apologise for my abominable and cowardly behaviour the other evening. I might give an explanation for what went through my mind at the time, but I am certain that you have already ‘deduced’ it. In the event, I can only beg your forgiveness and promise that I will not let proximity to myself blacken your reputation as it would do. In the unlikely circumstance that you might share my feelings on the subject, it is still best that I separate myself from your company for the good of both of us. Sherlock, know that meeting you and being able to join in with your adventures has been the best thing in my life. Ever. I wish you all good things in your future. Know as you go forward that there is at least one heart that has a special place kept within for you and only you. It is probably best that you destroy this note after reading._

_John Watson_

Sherlock read the note through twice, then folded it and replaced it in the envelope. He would not destroy it, of course.

Instead, he slid under the quilt and curled up, still holding the inhaler in his hand.

Yes, he knew exactly why John had left so abruptly the other night. Had read on his face the very moment he realised just what his feelings towards Sherlock were. He’d been very slow to that realisation, of course. And his reaction had not been a surprise. John Watson was not the sort to easily challenge the status quo.

He did not think that John was a coward. Save, perhaps, in this one thing.

How inconvenient that it was the most important thing.

Well, for him there was always the cocaine.

He inhaled several more times, until the worst edge of the pain was gone. Sherlock could not name the pain; neither could he deny its existence. It was a mystery and he hated those.

*

Hayes, Mycroft’s secretary, had rooms in a respectable albeit boring establishment not far from Government House. Mrs Kray, the landlady, a spare and tidy woman in a worn dress and pinny, greeted him with no more suspicion than might have been expected and what seemed genuine concern for her missing lodger. “A very clean young man,” she said, leading the way up a flight of narrow stairs. “Quiet. Never any company. All he seemed to do was work and collect his stamps.”

“He is a philatelist?” Sherlock asked as they came to a stop in front of a closed door.

She used a key to open the door. “Well, I don’t know about that, sir, but he does love his stamps.”

Sherlock stepped into the room. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll just have a look around.” He closed the door on her and could hear the slight huff she made before starting back down the stairs.

The accommodation consisted of a small sitting room and an equally small bedroom, with, no doubt, shared use of a bathroom down the short corridor. Mr Hayes was clearly a very tidy individual. There were only a few books on the table, including a bible and some rather sentimental novels. Sherlock did have to wonder how this man ever ended up working for Mycroft Holmes.

Also on the table was a thick leather-bound album that held a stamp collection. Slowly Sherlock turned the pages, impressed by the precision with which Hayes had accumulated and displayed his collection. Seeing this, he could begin to understand why Hayes might have been a fit for the position of Mycroft’s secretary.

It did not take long to complete his search.

In the entire room, there was only one thing of interest. That was a note he found tucked into a drawer with Hayes’s collars and stockings. _I have found the Penny Black you are interested in. Meet me at the usual place. K_

Could it be less vague?

Sherlock tucked the letter into his pocket and went back down the stairs to where Mrs Kray was waiting. “So? Do you know where poor Mr Hayes is?”

“No. But I can say that you might as well start looking for a new tenant.” He gave her a professional smile and left before she could say anything more.

His next stop was, unfortunately, Mycroft’s office.

Instead of Hayes at the desk, there was a thin young man with slicked back hair, a smile that was really more of a smirk and dark eyes that gave nothing away. “Well, hello,” he said too cheerfully. “You must be the brother everyone talks about.”

“Must I?” Sherlock nodded at the door. “Is he in?”

“Certainly. I will see if he—“

Sherlock ignored him, opened the door and went in.

Mycroft was, of course, in the middle of reading some thick file. My god, no wonder the man thought that watching birds fly around was interesting. Without looking up at Sherlock, he said, “You came in without being properly announced. Brooks will be very annoyed.”

“Lose one secretary and slot another in immediately. A bit heartless.”

Now Mycroft did look at him. “Oh, are we interested in hearts these day?”

For a moment, Sherlock felt a renewed stab of the pain he’d felt the night before after reading the note. He shoved it aside and sat down. “Just as well, actually. I’m afraid poor Hayes is not coming back.”

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “I feared as much. Will you be able to discover what happened and why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “What happened is someone killed him. The why is no doubt because he worked for you.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said drily. “I don’t suppose you also know _who_ killed poor Hayes?”

“Not yet. I might have to poke around a bit in the world of philately.”

“Well, I did say you needed a hobby.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Are you all right, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

It took a moment before Sherlock could reply in a way that didn’t feel as if he were dragging a sharp blade across his own flesh. “Oh, are we talking about feelings these days?” Then he stood up. “I will let you know what I discover.”

Mycroft nodded and returned to his file.

Brooks smiled at him, but Sherlock was more interested in the man’s eyes, which he now saw as being bottomless pools of darkness. “I understand you are a detective,” Brooks said. “That must be fascinating.”

“Oh, I am sure it pales next to working for my brother,” Sherlock replied lightly before leaving.

*

The rest of the day was spent trying to construct the life of an invisible man.

Going by the scant information in the notes Mycroft had provided, Sherlock visited the church where Hayes attended Sunday services more or less regularly, without, it seemed, making much of an impression on anyone. Next he tracked down the president of the local philately society, Jubal Dayne. At least that man seemed familiar with Hayes, although he was rather more interested in what would happen to Hayes’s stamp collection should he not be found safe and well.

“What can you tell me about something called the Penny Black?” Sherlock asked him finally.

“Ah, first stamp with an adhesive back to be used in a public postal system. Produced from 1840-41.”

“Is it valuable?”

The man, short and fat and dressed in a truly horrid green suit, reminded Sherlock of a toad perched on a lily pad, although it was actually a tall stool upon which he was sitting. Albums full of stamps were piled high on the counter. His tongue emerged and swiped across his upper lip. “Valuable? Moderately so. But in the future it will be much more so.” His eyebrows worked up and down. “Does Hayes possess a Penny Black?”

“I believe he was attempting to get one,” Sherlock replied.

“Do you know from whom?” Dayne asked eagerly.

“All I have is the letter K.”

“That is not terribly helpful.” Dayne sounded as if Sherlock had personally let him down.

By the time he left the shop, Sherlock was quite sure that collecting postage stamps was not anything he would ever do. Better to watch stupid birds, really.

As frequently happened, he struck lucky at his last stop, a small pub patronised by men of Hayes’s class, namely clerks and secretaries and accountants. Unusually, the landlord was actually a woman, widow of the man who had once owned the pub. She was a no nonsense women with thinning grey hair and a straight spine. And she knew Hayes as a fairly regular patron.

“Was he ever in here with anyone else?” Sherlock took a small sip of the lager which he had bought merely to appease the woman.

She was busy wiping down the bar. “No. Well, except for last week.” She frowned, but whether because of Hayes or the stubborn sticky patch that resisted her vigorous rubbing wasn’t clear.

“What happened last week?” Sherlock prompted.

She produced a small knife from somewhere and began to scrape at the patch with the point of the blade. “Oh, he met up with a woman. Not one of them wagtails, you know. I won’t have that sort around. She was a proper lady. The whole time she was jawing with Hayes, her carriage driver was standing just outside the door.” She gave a huff as the knife blade finally did its job, then ran the cloth over the spot. “Big, mean looking bloke.”

Sherlock had a sudden inspiration. “Blond?”

She nodded.

“How about the woman?”

The counter finally seemed clean enough to satisfy her, so she turned her entire attention back to him. “One of my regulars, fancies himself a poet, specially after his third pint, called her a ‘raven-haired Irish lass.’ Mr Hayes sat chatting with her for some little time. When she left, he was quite cheerful and had a second drink when usually he only indulged in one.”

Sherlock did not feel obligated to drink any more of the lager. In case he would need her help again, however, he thanked the woman quite nicely and left the pub.

*

Without exploring his reasons for making the decision go there, Sherlock found himself at the club, where he knew Mycroft would be dining. Sure enough, he found his brother enjoying a drink before ordering dinner and joined him at the table.

Mycroft looked mildly surprised as Sherlock sat down. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Sherlock only frowned at him.

Mycroft waved the waiter over and asked for a second glass, then poured Sherlock some of the wine. “From your presence here I assume you have found some information regarding Hayes’s death?”

Sherlock sipped the wine. “I am assembling the pieces, yes.”

Mycroft just waited, an expectant look on his face.

“I prefer not to hypothesise before all the facts are known,” Sherlock said primly.

“So you will tell me nothing?” Mycroft’s words displayed his irritation.

Sherlock ran a fingertip slowly around the rim of his glass, before looking up with a faint smile. “You might want to pay a bit more attention to the Irish problem.”

Mycroft gave soft groan, but then his face changed, immediately taking on a cautious look, with a crease of worry appearing between his brows.

Sherlock could not see the entrance from where he sat, but he knew without a doubt who had just entered the dining room. It was quite ridiculous how his whole body reacted to the idea that John Watson was nearby. The problem lay in the fact that he had no idea what that reaction was supposed to _mean._ Or what to do about it.

So he did nothing.

Mycroft summoned the waiter again. “I believe I will have the rawas,” he said. “What about you, Sherlock? Will you have the salmon as well?”

He shrugged.

Mycroft poured them each more wine, probably as a distraction.

If that were indeed his goal, he failed miserably, because Sherlock was now staring across the room to where John and Miss Morstan had been seated. John was smiling and chatting, but Sherlock could tell that he was far from happy. Which caused a clash of emotions. Oddly, Sherlock realised that he wanted John to be happy, but at the same time, he felt as if the man deserved to be a bit miserable for being so stupid about things.

Suddenly, John looked up and saw Sherlock staring at him. After a moment, he lifted his hand, as if to give a wave, but then Miss Morstan put a hand on his arm and murmured something and the hand lowered.

Sherlock could not decide if he were angry or unhappy. All the contradictory emotions he could neither understand nor control were going to destroy him, he had no doubt. John said something and she laughed as though the man had uttered some very amusing witticism. And while Sherlock Holmes would admit that the doctor had many fine qualities, a sparkling wit, in his experience, did not seem to be one of them.

At that point, Sherlock forced himself to not even look in the direction of John Watson.

Their dinner arrived. Mycroft carefully dissected his salmon. “When you say ‘the Irish problem’ to what exactly were you referring?” He kept his voice casual.

“Is there more than one?” Sherlock was mostly just pushing the food around on his plate.

Mycroft did not answer.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. Sherlock ate the trifle, but absently, lingering over it, requesting more tea. He did not expect that his brother was mislead for a moment about his uncharacteristic dawdling, but sometimes ignoring the truth was best for all.

Neither of them looked when John Watson and Miss Morstan left the dining room, but Sherlock stood immediately.

“You probably would not welcome my advice,” Mycroft said softly.

“Clever Mycroft,” he said.

Then he followed John.

*

Sherlock settled into the doorway of the house across the road and watched the pair go inside Miss Morstan’s bungalow. Lights went on and then off again.

After a few minutes, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the inhaler.

The first edge of dawn was just touching the horizon when John finally came out of the house. He closed the door, looking around carefully but not seeing Sherlock huddled in his hiding place. After a moment, he straightened his shoulders and marched away.

Mission accomplished, Sherlock thought. 

He took one final inhalation of the cocaine and set off again in pursuit. Only when John was safely inside his bungalow, did Sherlock abandon his watch and go home as well.

**


	22. Passion, Like Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths begin to be revealed. Even to John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday, faithful readers. Although, the day finds me, like much of the world in a bit of a mess, actually. Everything that is going on makes it hard to focus. Some of you know that I am hoping to get my new puppy on 2 April. Between trying to get ready for that and worrying that something will happen to ruin it, not to mention wondering if every cough is more than that, I am finding it hard to work. Given that, I am going to cut down posting to Sundays only. Hopefully having a bit of extra time will allow me to edit and polish to the standard I demand of myself. So I will see you all next Sunday, but I do hope to hear from you before then with some comments on this chapter.

For passion, like crime, does not sit  
well with the sure order and even  
course of everyday life.

-Mann, T.

1

Just as he did every day, John Watson arrived at his surgery precisely at nine that morning.

He greeted his receptionist with his usual smile, asking after her cat which had recently given birth to four kittens and yet again side-stepped her increasingly desperate attempt to get him to take one of the little ones. He did take the cup of tea she offered with thanks and went into his office. No patient was scheduled for at least an hour, thankfully, because he needed to _think_.

There had been times in his life when John had been ashamed of himself. Disappointed in his own actions. Embarrassed by his behaviour. Probably everyone had moments like that. Well, almost everyone. He could think of the one possible exception that proved the rule, but that exception must not be thought of now. 

Yes, on occasion, he had been ashamed, disappointed and embarrassed.

But until this moment, he had never really despised himself as he did now. The self-hatred burned through his entire being, body and soul, if such a thing existed and he actually possessed one.

The entire folly had begun with his misbegotten invitation to Miss Morstan to dine last night. It had been a desperate move and he had regretted it almost immediately, but lacked the courage to cancel. So he had taken the woman to the club and played the part of suitor, played it so well, in fact, that he almost managed to convince himself that this was the right and proper thing to do. That maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Miss Morstan was obviously not opposed to his courtship. A part of him admired the fact that she seemed unbound by the social mores of the day. Definitely a woman who knew very well what she wanted. And who had the strength and determination to pursue it. Especially at this moment, John admired that trait.

So, all in all, the dinner was going well.

Until John saw Sherlock Holmes across the room.

Immediately, the facade in which he had enclosed himself cracked and then shattered, like Ming vase dropped to the floor, leaving him exposed and helpless.

Unbidden, his hand rose to...well, to acknowledge the other man, at least. That was all right, wasn’t it?

Then Miss Morstan touched his arm. “I do hope that you might be persuaded to join me for a nightcap later,” she said, at her most charming.

John blinked at her, lowering his hand. Was this an example of the so-called modern woman? “Are you in favour of females getting the vote?” he asked.

Which made her laugh. Much more so than the non sequitur deserved.

As the meal went on, John managed a few subtle glances towards the table where the Holmes brothers were sitting. He watched Sherlock and what he felt was an almost tender longing. Why was the forbidden always sweetest? For some reason, he thought of the Garden of Eden and the apple. The myth had never seemed so apt or so poignant.

By the time the carriage delivered them to the house Miss Morstan was sharing with Miss Kennedy, John had made the decision to accept her offer of a drink, so he followed her inside. 

*

Even now, hours later, John could not explain why he had accepted her invitation, especially when he knew very well what that acceptance entailed. Oh, justification was easy to come by, of course.

It had been so very long since he had felt the real touch of another human being.

In truth, he thought that his whole life had been devoid of very much touching. Oh, he had experienced carnal caresses, but that had been to only one purpose. _Touching_ he thought was different, more intimate even than the sexual act, especially if that act was with a stranger. And if he could not have the touches from the one person he truly desired, who could blame him for accepting what was offered from another? So he followed Mary Morstan into her house, into her bedroom and into her bed.

And now he was ashamed and embarrassed and angry at himself.

This was all his fault and he had to make it right.

Not that he really knew how to do that. First, of course, he must meet with Miss Morstan and...well, not apologise, exactly, because truthfully she had been not only agreeable, but clearly determined to achieve her goal. But he must make it clear that nothing of the sort could happen again. A gentleman would do no less and with all his faults, John wanted to believe that he was, at the very least, a gentleman.

Still lost in thought, John stared at a painting that hung on the wall of the office; it had been left by one of his unknown predecessors and depicted London in winter. Terribly romanticised, of course, but still it made John yearn for the city. A city where he should have met Sherlock Holmes and had adventures with him.

He wondered about the life they could have had. Maybe were meant to have. He thought it would have been legendary.  
But they did not meet in London.

Probably, John thought, he should just go back to England. Perhaps they would take him back at St. Barts and he could live out his life being the man everyone expected him to be. He could read adventure stories and pretend it was all happening to him.

All of that would mean never seeing Sherlock Holmes again, of course.

Which was the worst possible outcome and also the only outcome that kept them both safe.

John felt like beating his head against the desk until he stopped thinking about anything at all.

Before he could do that, however, there was a tap and the door opened. His receptionist stood there, an odd look on her face.

“Is Mrs Hale here?” John asked wearily.

She just shook her head and then two uniformed constables pushed by her and came into the office.

John assumed there was some sort of emergency requiring a doctor, so he started to rise.

“John Watson?” one of the officers said.

“Yes?”

The officer stepped forward. “We are here to arrest you, sir, for the rape and murder of Miss Kathleen Kennedy.”

“What?” John said. Clearly he had misheard.

But then metal cuffs were clipped on his wrists and he was lead from the surgery.

Mrs Hale, just arriving, stared at him open-mouthed as he passed.

*

2

The sound barely penetrated the miasma of his sleep.

At first, he believed the knocking to be only a part of the foggy, mysterious dream he was having, but then it got louder and the dream broke apart. Waking up abruptly, Sherlock rolled over in the bed. “Go away,” he shouted.

But, instead of following that order, whoever was knocking opened the door. 

Surprisingly, it was not Mycroft standing there, but Simmons. 

Sherlock flopped back against the pillow. “What?” he said.

“Your brother wishes to see you downstairs.”

“My brother can go to hell.” He was in no mood for Mycroft’s Byzantine plots this morning.

Simmons was unmoved. “He said that if you were reluctant I was to tell you that the matter is quite serious.”

Sherlock considered covering his head with the pillow. Or using it to suffocate Simmons.

“Quite serious and concerning Dr Watson.” 

Sherlock sat up. “What?”

“He is waiting for you downstairs,” Simmons said, before closing the door.

Sherlock rolled off of the bed. He almost headed out of the room, but then remembered that he was clad only in drawers. Hurriedly, he grabbed and pulled on the trousers and shirt he’d dropped on the floor only hours before. Bare-footed and still buttoning the shirt haphazardly, he ran down the stairs and, hearing the clink of tableware against china, went into the dining room.

As expected, Mycroft was sitting at the table having breakfast as if all was right with the world. He looked up as Sherlock burst into the room and raised a brow. “Good heavens, is the building ablaze?”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said tightly. “Not now. What’s happened?”

Mycroft set his knife and fork down tidily. “Nothing good, I fear. Your friend Dr Watson has been taken into custody and put in a cell.”

Sherlock dropped into a chair. “Why?”

Mycroft wiped his mouth with the serviette. “Apparently he has been accused of rape and murder.”

“That’s absurd,” Sherlock snapped. Then he paused. “Who is he supposed to have raped and murdered?”

“Miss Kathleen Kennedy.”

And almost immediately it made sense. Sherlock absently picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. He was angry at himself for not having seen this coming. But there had been so many strings to untangle. A lying Mary Morstan. The hulking Moran. The ‘companion’ who never really fit in. A missing secretary. The Penny Black.

And a decent man who tried to do the proper thing even when it violated what he knew of himself.

“Sherlock? Are you all right?” Mycroft asked, sounding oddly hesitant.

“What?”

“You have been sitting there for at least three minutes, blinking. I was beginning to think you’d had an apoplexy.”

Sherlock waved the half-eaten piece of toast in a gesture of dismissal. “John Watson did not do what he is accused of,” he said.

“Can you be sure? Admittedly, my impression of the man was quite favourable, but...why would he be accused?”

Sherlock stood. “I _told_ you to pay more attention to the Irish problem.” Then he turned around and left. 

He was back to his room before he realised that the toast was still in his hand.

*

Less than an hour later, Sherlock was ready to leave for the police station. He had washed and dressed in a proper suit and cravat and even tidied his hair a bit. Mycroft, heading out at the same time, had frowned at his usual lack of a hat, as if that mattered at all.

“I suppose you are intending to be the knight in shining armour riding to the rescue?” Mycroft said. “Although I hesitate to call the good doctor a damsel in distress.”

“Are you opposed to seeking justice, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighed. “When are you going to tell me what the devil is going on?”

“When you need to know.” With that, Sherlock stalked off.

*

The police station was a buzz of activity; scandalous crimes like rape and murder were not a common occurrence in the British community and everyone wanted to be a part of the excitement. It took dealing with three different low-ranked idiots before he was allowed into the office of the chief idiot, namely the detective in charge.

Detective-Inspector Henry Campbell looked as if he were still in Scotland Yard, the place from whence he had come five years earlier. Steel-grey hair, regimental tie, and Saville Row suit. Here was a man who had not ‘gone native’ at all. He narrowed his gaze at Sherlock. “Oh, yes, I have heard of you, Mr Holmes. Bit of a troublemaker, aren’t you?”

Sherlock took the chair that had not been offered. “I suppose that depends on your definition of trouble,” he said with false cheer.

“No doubt you think that having Mycroft Holmes as your brother entitles you to special treatment.”

“I try to think of having Mycroft Holmes as my brother as little as possible.”

Campbell was not amused, but at least he didn’t kick him out. “What is your interest in the Watson case?”

“My interest is in the fact that John Watson is innocent.”

Campbell held out his hands expansively. “Oh, well, in that case, just give me the evidence and I will set him free.” He waited.

Sherlock glared at him. “What is the evidence you have that he is not innocent?”

“The testimony of the victim’s friend.”

“Ahh, the estimable Miss Morstan,” Sherlock said. “May I hear _her_ version of the truth?”

“That would be highly irregular,” Campbell objected.

Sherlock only nodded pleasantly. “Oh, by the way, I would like to send a message to my brother at Government House. Would that be possible?” Well, sometimes having Mycroft as a close relative did come in handy,

Campbell was not best pleased, but after a moment he stood and gestured to the officer standing outside the door. “Take Mr Holmes the Lesser to the interview room. I will join you momentarily.”

“Yes, sir.”

He could see the Morstan woman through the window of the small room. She was wearing a black dress, which highlighted the paleness of her complexion. Her hands were clasped together on the top of the battered table, next to a small handbag and a teacup. After a moment, she looked up and saw him standing there. Her lips tightened. Sherlock had to admire the sheer gall of the woman. She lifted the teacup and took a prim sip. She might have been sitting at tea with the Queen. Sherlock could not stop berating himself for under-estimating her for far too long.

A moment later, Campbell appeared next to him. “The woman is understandably quite upset, Holmes. I won’t have you bullying her.”

Sherlock almost smiled. “I’m certain that it would take a much stronger man than I to bully that woman, Inspector.”

Campbell gave him a sharp glance and then they went into the room. The inspector took the chair opposite her, but Sherlock remained standing, leaning against the wall casually. “Mr Holmes would like to hear what you have told us, Miss Morstan.”

Instead of speaking, she opened the black-beaded handbag resting on the table and took out a silver cigarette case, which had a pink rose painted on the top. Her movements were careful, measured. Sherlock felt sure that everything the woman did was accomplished that same way. She was a deadly foe, which he should have seen so much earlier.

And now John Watson was paying the price for _his_ stupidity.

Morstan took out a cigarette and held it to her lips expectantly. Sherlock just looked back at her.

Finally, Campbell took out a box of Bryant and May Lucifers and lit her cigarette.

“Thank you.” She smiled at him. “Nice to find a gentleman in this place.”

Campbell, surprisingly, seemed unmoved. “Mr Holmes would like to hear your account of last night’s tragic events, Miss Morstan.”

“I am sure he would.” She took a slow inhalation from the cigarette and then exhaled a small cloud. For several moments, she smoked and they watched.

“Oh, the adventurous Miss Morstan,” Sherlock said finally. “She loves to flaunt the rules of society, Inspector, did you know that?”

Campbell remained quiet and Sherlock’s opinion of him went up a bit.

Morstan leant back in the chair, looking bored now. “Last evening, I dined with Dr Watson,” she said. “Which you already know, Mr Holmes, since you spent your entire meal gawping at us. I thought it was rather pathetic, actually.” She took a last puff and looked around vaguely. Campbell quickly pushed the empty teacup towards her. She dropped the remains of the cigarette into it.

“Go on,” Campbell said. He spoke softly, but his voice was steel.

“Well, I thought Dr Watson was a gentleman. He always seemed so pleasant. So I invited him in for a drink.” Her expression turned a bit wry. “Mary Morstan, modern woman. I shall bear the guilt of my behaviour for the rest of my life. If only I had not done that, Miss Kennedy would still...” Her words broke off.

“Oh, I am quite sure you will be wracked with the guilt,” Sherlock said, his tone mocking.

She turned back to Campbell. “He made an improper advance, as I told you before. I rebuffed him, of course, and he became quite angry. I ordered him to leave and he did, saying that I would regret sending him away. I thought he had gone for good, but I was so upset that I forgot to lock the door. Instead, I went to my room.”

Sherlock realised that he could say that John had not left the house at all until dawn, but that, he knew, might only strengthen the case against him. 

Morstan took a lace-trimmed handkerchief from the handbag and dabbed at her eyes. “I have no idea what time it was when I heard the sounds from Miss Kennedy’s room. I was frightened, of course, but there seemed no choice save to run to her. When I opened the door, I saw Dr Watson going out through the window in a great hurry. Then, to my horror, I saw poor Miss Kennedy sprawled on her bed.” Here she paused, as if to collect herself.

Sherlock was still leaning against the wall, in part because he was afraid that if he moved closer to the table, he might well be tempted to pummel the woman.

Neither man spoke, either to comfort her or hurry her along.

“Her clothing was...disarrayed in a most dreadful way and then I saw that a stocking, one of hers, was tied around her neck. So tight...” Her voice caught. “I have seen death before and I knew immediately...” 

Sherlock wanted to ask her the circumstances under which she had seen death, but that was a diversion. And something that could be explored later.

“It was so late that no one was around. I am afraid that I quite lost my senses and all I could think to do was go to the street and scream until a neighbour heard me and summoned a constable.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Sherlock began to slowly clap his hands together.

Campbell stared at him in apparent shock.

Morstan’s gaze at him was cold.

“Mr Holmes,” the inspector began, “I do not believe...”

“She is lying,” he said flatly.

After a moment, she began to weep.

Campbell looked as if he were regretting letting Sherlock into the room. 

“Oh, Inspector Campbell, this man has hated me since I rebuffed his advances on our voyage out. And he quickly formed a very odd relationship with Watson. He would do anything to blacken my name and exonerate the doctor.”

After a moment, Campbell stood and gestured for Sherlock to follow him out of the room. They did not stop or speak until they were back in his office, where Campbell sat at his desk. “What the devil were you doing in there?” Despite his obvious anger, his voice was even and calm.

“That woman is not what she appears, Inspector.”

“So you say.”

Sherlock was too impatient to waste more time with this. “I want to see Watson,” he said.

“Oh, now, that is really going too far.” Then Campbell paused. “But if I refuse, you will only threaten to contact your brother again, won’t you?”

“Much as it pains me to do so, I will,” Sherlock promised.

Campbell sighed.

“And I want to see him on my own.”

“Fine. If he strangles you, the fault is all your own.”

“And you would be left to explain it to my brother,” Sherlock replied with a small smirk.

Surprisingly, Campbell smirked as well. “I was at the ball,” he said. “Possibly he would present me with an award for service to the Empire.”

“He might at that,” Sherlock agreed.

Again, the constable was summoned and ordered to take him to the cell where Watson was being held. Sherlock took a deep breath and followed him.

John was lying on a narrow bunk, facing the wall and he did not turn over when the constable unlocked the door. Sherlock stepped inside the cell, the door was locked again and, after a glare from Sherlock, the officer moved to the far end of the corridor.

Sherlock waited a moment for John to say or do anything, but when the other man didn’t, he took another step closer. “John,” he said quietly.

John seemed to freeze for a moment, then he rolled over and stared up at him. “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock studied him. John’s face was pale, his eyes had dark circles under them and his hair looked as if his hands had run through it many times. “I’ve come to save you,” he said. “Of course. Did you think that I would not?”

John looked past him and saw that no one else was near. “Even after...everything?”

“I would climb into a volcano if necessary.” Sherlock shrugged. “It is possible that that I have taken leave of my senses.”

John half-smiled. “You are a romantic.”

“Possibly.”

“And I have been a colossal fool.”

“Definitely.” Sherlock stepped closer. “But understandably. The world is an unforgiving place,”

There was a pause during which they just looked at one another and even without words, it seemed that some common agreement had been reached.

“I did not do this dreadful thing, Sherlock. I need you to know that.”

“I do know it.”

“You have such faith in me?”

“I do. I know you, John Watson.” He knew that his smile was sheepish. “And also, I was there.”

“You were where?”

“Outside Morstan’s bungalow. I saw you leave at dawn.”

John closed his eyes as a flush that was probably caused by shame touched his face. “You shouldn’t be here, Sherlock. My reputation is blackened and I am probably facing the rope.”

Sherlock moved closer and settled his hand on John’s shoulder. “Are you saying that my skills as a detective are insufficient to save an innocent man from hanging?”

John raised his head and again they stared at one another for a long moment. He lifted his hand and placed it onto Sherlock’s. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“I have no choice,” Sherlock replied.

They heard the guard’s footsteps approaching and Sherlock quickly stepped away.  
“Time’s up,” the man said.

Sherlock tried to think of what to say in farewell, but in the end, he merely nodded at John and stepped out of the cell. He walked past the interrogation room. Morstan was still sitting there, smoking another cigarette. She looked up and saw him standing there. She smirked at him.

Sherlock’s hands clenched tightly.

Then he turned around and walked out of the police station.

*

3

Brooks brought in the dispatch box and offered tea, which Mycroft accepted with alacrity. He read a couple of the memoranda from the box while waiting for the tea, but his thoughts were, of course, on Sherlock. He almost thought that, if he could, he would force his brother onto the next ship heading for England, with his inheritance in hand and all good wishes for his career as a consulting detective or whatever bloody title he wanted to give himself.

But he knew that Sherlock would not take the money and the good wishes and return to his beloved London. 

Brooks brought the tea and ginger biscuits.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said absently.

The clerk lingered. “Quite the tragedy with your brother’s friend Dr Watson, isn’t it?”

Mycroft was automatically signing his name to routine papers. He did wonder just a bit how Brooks knew that Sherlock was acquainted with Watson, but no doubt the rumour mill was in full flow. He made a sound that might have been agreement.

“I expect he will take the case on, although the evidence seems quite damning.”

A chatty clerk was something that Mycroft neither expected nor desired and his glance told Brooks as much. Luckily, the message was received and Brooks retired to his desk.

It was only a short time later when Sherlock arrived. Instead of his usual dramatic bursting into a room, he actually waited for Brooks to announce his arrival, which alone spoke of his mental state. When the clerk had departed, Sherlock sat down. He looked tired.

“How is Dr Watson?” Mycroft asked.

If Sherlock were surprised that he knew about the visit, he did not show it. “How do you expect he is?”

“Are you still convinced that he is innocent?”

Sherlock did not even deign to reply to that. “Mary Morstan,” he said, spitting out the words like a profanity. “Who is she?”

Mycroft capped his pen and set it aside. “I have already telegraphed to London and am awaiting a reply. When I know something, you will as well.”

Sherlock nodded, but absently. His fingers pyramided in front of his mouth as he thought. “The Irish problem,” he murmured.

“You keep saying that,” Mycroft said with some irritation.

“I don’t mean some Fenian plot,” Sherlock snapped back. “I am talking about crime, not revolution.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Moriarty? Really?”

“Of course Moriarty. Everything is all tangled up in his web.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “Even my poor secretary?”

“Yes, even Hayes.” Sherlock lowered his hands and stared at Mycroft. “Your new secretary...” Without giving him a chance to reply, Sherlock bolted from his chair and practically ran out of the office.

But the secretary’s desk was empty. Only a single piece of paper marred the emptiness of the polished oak. Sherlock picked the paper up and read it aloud.

_My Dear Sherlock,_  
Slan a fhagail anois, ach feicfdh me go  
luath thu. 

_JM_

Mycroft had followed him and took the paper when Sherlock held it out. He read it aloud again, this time in English. “Goodbye now, but I’ll see you soon.”

The noise from beyond this room, the hustle and bustle of an Empire chugging along efficiently, was nothing but a muted hum.

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at one another in silence.

**


	23. In The Presence of Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danger is everywhere. Plots are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of real life, I do hope that this story provides a bit of a balm to everyone. I am hoping to keep up my schedule, but must add that, unless something goes very wrong, this is the week I will be getting my new puppy, Sherlock. Fingers crossed. So if I am a day or two late in posting, you will know why. But I so appreciate   
> my loyal readers and commenters. You are all my balm in these dire times.

The worst dream of the night: when you are  
parted from someone you love and you do  
not know exactly where he is, but you  
know that he is in the presence of danger.

-Otto, W.

1

Mycroft was not unaware that many of the people at Government House had a nickname for him, one that was never uttered in his presence. They called him The Iceman. Although he did make an effort, when required, to be pleasant, even amiable, he did not mind if others thought that the chilly appellation fit. In fact, some days being thought of as an emotionless bastard served his purposes delightfully.

This was one of those days.

Sherlock had vanished soon after they found the note that appeared to have been written by Moriarty and Mycroft had no idea where his brother had gone. But at the moment, he had his own problem to deal with right here and he meant to deal with it as The Ice Man.

One by one they came into the office and were subjected to his questioning.

_Who had hired Richard Brooks?_

_Where had he come from?_

_What do you know of James Moriarty?_

It was tedious, because there was a lot of laying the blame elsewhere or pleading of ignorance. If they were all being truthful, then Mycroft was dismayed by the number of ignorant people working for the Crown. But, eventually, the man now sitting in front him, one George Adams, who was an aide to the office of the treasury, seemed willing to speak.

“Brooks came in with several letters of recommendation from highly placed persons,” Adams said. “I read them myself.”

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, notably without the usual stack of papers in front of him. The only thing on the desk was a solitary file, the one belonging to Adams, and the man was plainly aware of that. “From whom had these letters come?” Mycroft asked, as his fingers, apparently randomly, tapped soundlessly on top of the file.

Adams thought before speaking. “One from Lord Brightly. Another from Admiral Kaine. And the third was from someone named Mulberry, who apparently works with the Palace. It all seemed very much in order, sir.”

“I am sure it did,” Mycroft murmured, more to himself than Adams. Brightly was an idiot. Kaine was a respectable enough officer, but he did have a son with ties to some highly suspicious organisations, in both London and Dublin. Those men could be dealt with fairly easily.

Mulberry, of course, was a far more interesting proposition.

As Mycroft saw it, there were two options. One was that Mulberry had been, somehow, genuinely not suspicious about the man known as Richard Brooks. That was a distinct possibility, because Mycroft had many times thought that Mulberry was not quite as perceptive as one would have hoped. Admittedly, he was doing an acceptable job of getting their organisation tidily integrated into the government. Probably because he was extremely good at smoothing over parliamentary ruffled feathers. Her Majesty was following the process with some interest, although she persisted in suggesting to Mycroft in her correspondence that perhaps _he_ should be the one in charge.

Mycroft agreed with that thesis, of course. He was also of the opinion that sooner was better than later, because Victoria was not getting any younger and he definitely wanted to be in place before the throne was taken over by that wastrel playboy Bertie. Once ensconced, Mycroft did not doubt his ability to solidify his position of power regardless of whom was sitting on the throne.

The other possibility, of course, was that Mulberry had murkier reasons for allowing Moriarty to infiltrate Mycroft’s office. Given his usual cynicism about human nature, Mycroft was surprised to realise that he did not really believe that Mulberry’s motivations were nefarious, but just part of some convoluted scheme of his own. He just wished that the man would not be so damned opaque all the time.

Impatiently, Mycroft dismissed those presently irrelevant thoughts and returned his attention to the immediate problem.

George Adams.

He fixed the man with a chilly gaze. “What do you know about James Moriarty?”

Adams looked surprised by the question. “No more than anyone else. I hear rumours, but...” He shrugged.

Mycroft decided that there was no more Adams could tell him, so he dismissed the man with an impatient wave, but without any assurance that he was immune from further queries.

Alone, Mycroft leant back in his chair with a sigh. He wondered where Sherlock had run off to. As usual, his brother had declined to give any indication of what he planned to do in light of the note left by Moriarty. There was little Mycroft could do to assist or keep him safe if he did not know what the devil the idiot was up to.

There was a tap on the door.

“What?” Mycroft barked out.

Simmons opened the door and stepped into the room. “The telegrams from London have arrived, sir.”

“Not before time.” He took the sheaf of papers from Simmons, who was serving duty as Mycroft’s aide at the moment. “Some tea would be most welcome.”

“Certainly.”

When Simmons had gone, Mycroft picked up the first telegram, very glad that he was not paying the per word price for the messages.

_Mary Morstan_

Which, of course, was not her actual name.

Mycroft started to read, scarcely noticing when Simmons brought the tea and biscuits in and set them down on the desk.

As the other man turned to leave the office, Mycroft did rouse himself enough to say, “Please see if anyone knows where my brother has gotten to.”

Simmons nodded and left.

*

2

There was no way for him to count the hours, as his pocket watch had been taken away, along with his wallet. At one point, a tin plate with beans, a tiny hunk of bacon and two slices of dry bread were brought to him, along with a battered tin mug of lukewarm, weak tea. John had absolutely no appetite, but his doctor’s brain told him that he could not afford to let himself become weak in either body or mind.

So he ate the meal, trying not to dwell upon the fact that it reminded him much too strongly of his childhood. Had the wheel of fate turned 360° and taken him right back to the place from which he had escaped? Born in the gutter, die in the gutter, his mother once said, talking about a young girl from the building. Eva had been her name and she had briefly flared brightly, after being taken up by a successful buttoner. The ill-gotten income from his street gambling games gave him money to throw around and, for a time, he chose to throw some of it at Eva. She would come round the building in one of her new dresses and fancy shawls, showing off. But soon enough, he tired of her and she found herself reduced to standing on the streets of Whitechapel, looking for trade.

_Born in the gutter, die in the gutter._

Eva certainly had, murdered soon after by a drunken client.

And now it seemed as if John Watson were going to end up with an ignominious death as well.

When his mind dwelt on thoughts like that, John felt helpless and then a bit guilty for not having enough faith in Sherlock Holmes. Who had promised to prove his innocence. However, that seemed an impossible task, although he knew that Sherlock would do his very best.

Because, it seemed, Sherlock cared for him, impossible as that was to believe. John did not really know what the truth of that caring actually meant and now was not the time to dwell upon it, because he might soon be dangling at the end of a rope. At the very least, he hoped that it meant at least one person might mourn him.

John heard the cell door being unlocked and looked up quickly, hoping against hope that Sherlock had returned.

But it was a stranger who was stepping into the cell. A rotund fellow with a head full of bright white hair and an inappropriately cheerful demeanour. “Hello, Dr Watson,” he said.

John tried to smooth his hair and then his shirt, not that it made much difference to either. “Hello?” It was a question the way he said it.

“I am Edward Hopper, a barrister here to represent you.”

“Really? I didn’t...” Frankly, it had not even occurred to him to seek such help. He shook his head; his brain was really moving slowly.

“Mr Holmes contacted me and secured my services.”

John blinked at him. “Sherlock did that?”

But Hopper shook his head. “Mr Mycroft Holmes spoke with me.”

That made no sense at all. Why would an important man like Holmes bother with something like this?

The guard had placed a straight-backed wooden chair in the cell before departing and Hopper sat down in it, opening the brown attaché case on his lap. He took out a pad of paper and a pen. “Mr Holmes told me that you are a close acquaintance of his brother and for that reason he took an interest.”

John could only nod. Then he straightened a bit. “I did not commit this dreadful crime, Mr Hopper, I promise you that.”

Hopper smiled at him. “Always good to know, Doctor, but my task is to give you good counsel no matter what.”

John frowned. “I did not kill that woman,” he said flatly. “Other than the fact that I was in the house that night, I have no idea why they have accused me. I did not even see Miss Kennedy at all.”

The solicitor pursed his lips thoughtfully at that, before opening the pad of paper and then held his pen in readiness, using the attaché case as an improvised lap desk. “Why don’t you tell me about that night, Dr Watson. In as much detail as you can, please.”

John leant back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. “I collected Miss Morstan at her home and we proceeded to the club for dinner. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Pleasant conversation, decent meal.” He paused. “Miss Morstan was quite persistent about my joining her for a nightcap after the meal.” He did not know whether or not to mention seeing both the Holmes brothers at dinner, but then decided that it was not really relevant. It occurred to him, belatedly, to wonder about Sherlock apparently following them from the club, but that was not anything the barrister needed to know either.

“And you were agreeable?”

John opened his eyes. Was there judgement in that question? “I am unmarried, as is she,” John said, probably sounding more defensive than intended.

“Certainly,” Hopper said mildly, making a note.

“Miss Morstan considers herself a modern woman,” John offered. “That seems to liberate her from what she sees as the strictures of society.” Then he shrugged. “I am not really sure of what all that means.”

Hopper turned to another page in the pad and John wondered just what he was writing down. “Go on, Dr Watson.”

“We did indeed have a drink. Something with gin.” He stopped.

Hopper looked up at him expectantly.

John cleared his throat. “Surely you do not want to hear the details. We retired to her bedroom.”

“And engaged in sexual congress?”

“Yes.” John was annoyed that he could feel his face flush. He was a doctor, dammit, and should be able to talk about such things without embarrassment.

“And then?”

“Then?”

“Did you leave immediately after?”

For just a moment, John let his thoughts flutter back. He remembered the actual act, of course. It had been fine, not a heated passion on either side, really, but it was what it was. “We fell asleep,” he said quietly. “I woke at about dawn. She was still half-asleep and I bid her farewell. I left and returned home.” Followed, it seemed, by Sherlock Holmes. He still did not mention that, of course.

Hopper stopped writing and just sat for a moment. His expression was sympathetic. “Has no one told you why you were arrested?”

John shook his head. “I assumed just because I was there.”

The solicitor sighed. “I must inform you that Miss Morstan tells a very different story, doctor.”

“What?” John swallowed.”What does she say? How could it be different? The truth is the truth.”

“Ah, what a fine world it would be if that were so,” Hopper said. He made one more note and then set the pad and pen aside. “Miss Morstan’s tale is quite different. She admits to inviting you in for a drink, because you ‘seem like such a nice man’. But quite abruptly, you apparently turned into a brute. You made a rough advance on her, which she immediately rebuffed. You became angry. Terrified, she ordered you to leave and you did. But she was so distraught that she forgot to latch the door before retreating to her bed. Sometime later, she heard disturbing noises from Miss Kennedy’s room. When she ran to check on her friend, she saw you climbing out the window. And then she saw Miss Kennedy, strangled and much disarrayed from the rape, lying in the bed.”

John was staring at the man in utter disbelief. And horror. “None of that is true,” he managed to say. “Why would she lie in that way? I do not understand.”

Hopper gave John a moment to collect himself. “It appears that you have been set up to take the blame for this crime. I have no idea why.”

John got to his feet and paced the small cell for a few moments. He made a decision. “You must talk with Sherlock Holmes,” he said. John did not feel free to tell the man about Sherlock’s actions, so the only thing to be done was to have Hopper speak to him personally.

Hopper was putting everything back into his attaché case. “I will certainly do so..... once he turns up. Mr Mycroft Holmes says that he has no idea where his brother is.” He stepped forward to shake John’s hand. “Try to stay calm,” he said. “We shall figure out what is going on.”

John grimaced. “In time to save me from the scaffold?”

Hopper gave him a faint smile. “That is always my intention, doctor.”

He summoned the guard to let him out and the man took the chair away as well.

John sank down onto the bed, his thoughts a jumble. Where was Sherlock? Had he lost faith in John? Or, much worse, had he somehow stumbled into the middle of whatever scheme was in place and suffered for it?

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. There was no escaping the truth that the blame for everything which was now happening was entirely down to him. His cowardice. The lies he told to himself. And to others. So now he was most likely on the path to the scaffold, despite Hopper’s reassurances.

And if something had indeed happened to Sherlock, that was on him as well.

One thing was a fact that could not be disputed. If some disaster had befallen Sherlock Holmes, if the worst had happened, John knew that he would welcome the rope when it came.

*

3

Sherlock Holmes always had a plan.

Admittedly, on occasion, those plans might be a bit lacking in detail. Perhaps once in a while they could even be called haphazard. Sometimes the plan came on the spur of the moment and other times he spent hours in his mind working out every detail. Imagining every scenario.

This time, the plan was exquisitely simple: Save John Watson.

It was simple only because there was no other option. Every moment John spent in that cell was dangerous, moving him inexorably towards trial, judgement, execution. Sherlock had no doubt that if the case against him ever went before a jury and Mary Morstan appeared on the stand to give her testimony—a sweet and weeping and [apparently] innocent [apparently] English woman—they would not be able build the scaffolding quickly enough to hang John Watson.

There was nothing that Sherlock would not do to prevent that.

Nothing.

In fact, it rather terrified him to think of the lengths to which he would go.

So: the Plan.

*

He knew that Morstan had left the bungalow in which she and Miss Kennedy had been living, moving instead into the Great Eastern Hotel, which meant that the house should be empty now. Still, he sat across the road, in the same place he had hidden before, and watched for nearly an hour. There were no lights inside, all the drapery was drawn and no one approached or evinced any interest at all.

So finally Sherlock made his way to the rear of the building. It was a simple matter to manipulate the lock on the door and in only moments, he was inside. He pulled the pocket torch from his coat and began to search. The sitting room held no secrets, although he did pause for a moment to examine the two glasses and bottle of Gordon’s Gin. Next he went into the bedroom that was the scene of the murder. The bedding was a jumbled mess, but otherwise the room looked quite normal. The wardrobe held a respectable collection of clothing that was not of the finest quality, but still fashionably acceptable. The most curious fact was that every one of the gowns appeared to have been acquired at about the same time, judging by wear and by details of styling.

Curious.

He reached the same conclusion about the shoes and the lingerie. It was true that people often purchased some new apparel before taking a trip, but this struck Sherlock as more like the creation of a whole new person. A ‘companion’ invented for a purpose.

He was about to leave the room when something occurred to him, an idea from some ridiculous popular novel he had once read for a reason he could no longer recall. The vapid heroine had secrets and she kept them all in a diary. A diary which she was forced to hide from the villainous master of the house. Miss Kennedy seemed like the type of young woman who might have read that same book and remembered a bit of it.

Sherlock returned to the bed. The first finial he unscrewed revealed nothing, but he struck lucky on the second, when he reached into the hollow post and found a small clothbound book. A shiny gold pen was attached to the book with a length of twine.

Although he was tempted to sit down and immediately read what was on the pages, he restrained himself, instead putting it into his pocket.

Next was the other bedroom, the one where John had spent the night with the Morstan woman. Sherlock paused, staring at the bed for a moment, considering the evidence. The linen was not much disarranged, which pleased him in some ridiculous way. Grand passion usually created a certain untidiness and whatever had gone on in this bed, he deduced, had not. Unlike Miss Kennedy’s room, the wardrobe and drawers in here were all empty. Unsurprisingly, she had cleared out completely, Still, he searched every inch of the room, but found nothing. Not unexpected, really. Morstan was clearly a professional, although at what Sherlock was not quite clear about just yet.

After another few minutes, he was ready to leave, taking care to lock the door again as he did.

*

Her real name was Nora Kelly. She was a ladies maid in Dublin and one day she had the misfortune of entering into the employ of one Mary Morstan. Although for weeks, it did not seem to her like a misfortune. She had new clothes and was given lessons in being a lady and finally had the chance to see something of the greater world.

What she did not have was a missing brother. Or any other family members to question if anything happened to her.

Sherlock was sitting in a tiny cafe just off the main road, a place never really visited by the British community. He had discovered it years ago as a boy, when he would sneak out of the house and roam the city all night. The tea was as bad as ever, but the owner had always let him sit in the corner as long as he wanted to, for a small gratuity.

It was not easy reading the tiny, crabbed writing on the pages of Nora Kelly’s diary and so much of what she scribbled down was tedious in the extreme. But very occasionally, she made an observation that deserved consideration. She was basically an innocent, but an avaricious one, which was a dangerous combination. Primarily dangerous to Kelly herself, of course.

One thing became clear as he reached the point in her diary where they embarked for India and that was the fact that their presence on the same ship as Sherlock himself was no accident. His rejection of Morstan’s romantic advance that night on the deck had proved a fly in the ointment. He realised with a stab of pain that it had probably saved him from sitting in the jail cell which now held John Watson.

But one question still haunted him: Why?

It was not until he had almost finished reading the diary that the answer appeared and when it did, he was completely unsurprised.

_Mary’s half-brother visited us today. He is nice enough, I suppose, but I still found him a mite scary. When I told Mary that, she just laughed and said ‘Jimmy is a little bit mad, but so very clever.’_

There it was. James Moriarty. Jimmy.

Sherlock let his breath out in a long exhalation.

He swallowed the last of the truly dreadful tea, tucked the diary back into his pocket, and left the cafe. Luckily, a carriage was stopped just a short way up the road and he waved it over impatiently, eager to get to the police headquarters as quickly as possible. So eager, in fact, that he was already in the carriage and it had started to move before he realised that someone else was already inside, sitting opposite him.

“Moran,” he said tightly.

Moran smiled behind the rather large revolver he was aiming at Sherlock’s chest. “Nice to see you again, Holmes.”

“Sadly, I cannot say the same.”

Moran mimicked a sad expression. “Now that is hurtful. Especially as I am an old friend of your brother.”

Sherlock kept his own expression bored. “I have always despaired of his choice of acquaintances. Justifiably, it now appears.”

“Always a witty remark.” Abruptly, Moran used his free hand to knock on the roof. The carriage stopped and a moment later, the door opened and a burly cab man appeared. As Moran held the gun steadily, his finger never leaving the trigger, the other man suddenly grabbed Sherlock’s arm and before he could react, had plunged a needle into him.

Almost immediately, he began to feel dizzy.

“Don’t worry,” Moran said amiably, his voice oddly distant. “We adjusted the dosage to take into consideration your love of cocaine and opium.”

The last thought Sherlock had was of John sitting in the cell, waiting for his promised rescue. _So sorry, John...forgive me...”_

**


	24. Which Way His Heart Draws Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is still in a cell. Sherlock is still missing. And Mycroft is rumpled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the appearance of this new chapter is a pleasant surprise. And i apologise for the delay. Puppy, etc. Going forward, I will not set a specific day to post, but will get a chapter up as soon as it is ready. 
> 
> Mostly i hope you are all still interested in this story. Comments light up my isolation!

Everyone should carefully observe which way  
his heart draws him and then choose that  
way with all his strength

-Hasidic Saying

1

Simmons was quietly furious.

But that could not really be helped.

Mycroft knew that his valet [which title failed to elucidate the many roles the man played] was upset only because he was worried. Worried over the fact that his employer had not gone home at all the previous night. That the usually unruffled and always correct Mr Holmes was still in his clothing from the day before, albeit now sans jacket and cravat, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was more than one tea stain on the front of his usually pristine waistcoat.

The latest minion to be subjected to a loud accounting of his many shortcomings scurried out of the office and Simmons stepped in.

Mycroft slumped in his desk chair, running a hand through the chaos that was currently his hair. “Where the devil is my brother?” he asked Simmons rhetorically. “What is the use of having an entire building of supposedly capable employees when they cannot even find one man in the city?” He decided that if it were possible, he would station a man on every street corner to keep a watch over the impossible creature that was Sherlock.

Simmons was wise enough not to reply to his question. “There is some news, however,” he said instead.

Mycroft straightened. “What news?”

“The proprietor of a rather foul little cafe told a constable that your brother had been in just before his disappearance.”

After a moment, Mycroft nodded as a memory came to him. “Mr Garuda’s establishment, is it?”

Simmons raised a brow.

“It was one of Sherlock’s most favoured refuges when he was a boy. He spent many hours there, drinking the dreadful tea and reading. Or practicing his ‘deductions.’ Frankly, it` is a surprise that Mr Garuda is still in business, given the quality of his offerings.” Then Mycroft frowned at himself for such meanderings. “What did he say?”

“That your brother came in for the first time in many years, took his usual table, drank one cup of tea, refused any cake and spent some time reading from a small book.”

“And when he left?”

“Well, fortunately, Mr Garuda was about to close his establishment, so he was at the door. He saw Mr Holmes summon a cab that was loitering nearby, boarding said vehicle and being driven away.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment. “Nothing else?”

“One thing. Mr Garuda takes an interest in his surroundings, the usual comings and goings, even to the cabmen who favour that road, especially in the evenings. And he reports that the one operating that particular carriage was unknown to him.” Simmons shrugged. “For whatever that might be worth.”

“Could he describe the man?” Mycroft asked a bit absently, rubbing at the largest tea stain on his waistcoat.

“Indeed he could. And did, in fact. Based on that description, I showed him a photograph of one John Turner, a known villain. Mr Garuda identified him as the driver of the cab.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft made a decision that he had been mulling for the last couple of hours. “I want that woman Morstan or whatever her actual name is brought here so I can question her.”

“Very good, sir.” Simmons hesitated. “If I might, sir...”

“What?”

“I took the liberty of sending to the house for a change of clothing for you. And your toilette kit. Perhaps you might want to tidy yourself before confronting the woman.”

Mycroft looked down at his rumpled, rather unclean, waistcoat and shirt, realising that his hair was a tumult and that he greatly needed a blade applied to his face. “Go see about the Morstan woman and then come back to help me get ready.”

A short time later, Simmons seemed to relax a bit as a more familiar Mycroft Holmes slowly appeared, clean-shaven, hair pomaded, with a clean shirt and unstained waistcoat. By the time he was ready, word came that the woman was waiting in a small room used rarely, furnished only with a table and two straight-backed chairs.

They paused by the door. “I have noticed, Simmons, that you have taken to carrying your pistol.”

“These are dangerous times, sir.’

Mycroft could not argue with that. “Ought I get my own gun from the safe?”

Simmons almost permitted a smile to touch his lips. “You are a dreadful shot, sir. Have you forgotten that?”

Mycroft glared at him for a moment, then took a deep breath and went into the room, ready now for battle.

Morstan was wearing a severe grey dress, the only adornment a simple pearl brooch. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun.

Mycroft tried to deduce what particular role she was playing at the moment, but then he realised that he didn’t give a bloody damn. Instead of sitting opposite her, he stood in front of the table.

She gave him a smile.

He very much wanted to smash his fist into her face. He didn’t, of course. Instead, he pretended to study the file in his hand. “Which of your many aliases would you prefer me to employ?” he asked mildly.

“Oh, whichever _you_ prefer. Or just call me Mary. That goes with any of them.”

“So this is the modern woman one reads about,” Mycroft mused aloud. “Must say that I am not overly impressed.” Then he threw the file down onto the table. “Where is my brother?”

She raised a hand to her mouth in pretended distress. “Oh, dear, have you lost him? How very careless of you. There are so many dangers out there for pretty young men.”

And that was the end of Mycroft’s patience.

He rested both hands on the table and leaned towards her. “Do not mistake me for one of the usual fools you are so practised at taking advantage of, _Mary_ ,” Mycroft said in a low, frost-tinged voice. “With one glance through that window, I can make you vanish. It will be as if you never existed, under any of your pseudonyms.”

Almost involuntarily, it seemed, the woman glanced at the window and saw Simmons standing there, expressionless. There was, however, only the faintest hint of any emotion on her face. Mycroft had to admit that she was a formidable enemy. But that did not mean he would not triumph. He would.

“Where is my brother?” he asked again.

Instead of responding, she reached for the silver cigarette case sitting on the table.

Swift as a viper, Mycroft’s hand moved, sending the case flying. It smashed into the wall and then fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Oh, so the Iceman does have a melting point,” Mary said, the tone cutting, even if the look in her eyes lacked a bit of the earlier arrogance.

“Be aware that you do not drown in the resulting deluge,” Mycroft bit out. His hand reached out again and she actually flinched just a bit, but instead of a clearly expected blow, he caressed her cheek tenderly. “Mary, tell me where Sherlock is.”

She said nothing.

Smoothly and without warning, he changed tact. “Very well then, tell me where Moriarty is.”

He saw the faintest flicker of surprise in her eyes. She recovered quickly, however. “Oh, Mycroft, my dear, are you sure that you want to play that dangerous game? Those who fancy challenging Moriarty never fare well.” She glanced towards the broken cigarette case on the floor and sighed.

Mycroft abruptly remembered something which Sherlock had told him during one of their rare amiable conversations since his return to India. His brother was clever, remarkably skilled at what he did, no matter how unorthodox the profession he had created. “I will risk it,” he murmured, more to himself than her. Then he turned to look through the window, communicating with Simmons, who understood the message very quickly and gave a nod before walking away quickly.

Mycroft returned his attention to the woman. He gave her a smile. “Well, Mary, if you are not prepared to tell me anything, i suppose you might as well leave.”

The look she gave him reeked of suspicion. Quite rightly so.

He walked across the small room and bent to pick up her cigarette case. “I hope it was not of great value,” he said, handing it to her.

“Only sentimentally,” she replied.

He stood by the door. “Well, thank you, Mary. I will be certain that your cooperation is known,” he said politely.

She had moved to leave the room, but paused at his words. “What?”

“It is rather amazing how quickly a rumour moves through this city. Those who need to know will hear of how helpful you have been.”

“But...” Then she only smirked at him, although it seemed more from bravado than sincere confidence.

Once she was gone, Mycroft hurried through the corridor to the window at the far end. Down below, he could see her emerge from the building and walk away quickly. Simmons appeared next to him. “Who?” Mycroft asked softly.

“Huggins,” was the reply.

Mycroft nodded, pleased. Huggins was a good man. “Very well,” he said briskly. “We have work to do.”

It might have been foolishly optimistic, but he could not help but think that he had just taken the first real step towards finding Sherlock.

*

2

The guard begrudged it, but nevertheless he finally fetched the paper and pen that John had very politely requested be brought to him. John sat on the bed, leaning back against the wall. While he accepted that what he had decided to do was ridiculous, that did not diminish his determination even a jot.

He uncapped the pen and began to write.

_I, John H. Watson, being of sound mind..._

Well, as sound a mind as an innocent man facing the gallows might possess, he granted.

It did seem a bit foolish for a man who possessed next to nothing to write a will. John supposed that it was really nothing more than a gesture of complete sentimentality and most likely not one that would be welcomed by the intended recipient.

But nevertheless.

It was not an extensive listing.

One dress uniform from the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

One slightly used Enfield revolver.

One gold double hunter case Barraud watch, won in a poker game one long night in the hospital tent.

One copy of Culpepper’s English Physician and Complete Herbal, published in 1700 and purchased on a whim in a dusty little shop near Piccadilly Circus. 

One small leather pouch containing £50.

One ring, a heavy platinum thing which he rarely wore, discovered one night as he walked along the banks of the Thames. It was old and a bit scratched, but he had kept it because of the inscription. _To John, Always._ It seemed right that he have it.

And thus was summed up the life of John Hamish Watson. Oh, there were other bits and pieces, diplomas, souvenirs, a photograph of himself in uniform. Unimportant, but, he decided, all of that could be subsumed under the heading of ‘Miscellaneous Personal Items.’

John was so engrossed in what he was doing that he did not even hear footsteps approaching or the cell door being opened. It was not until the guard slammed the door shut again that John startled and looked up. He had no idea what, if anything, he was expecting, but it was certainly not to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the middle of the cell, all properly turned out, with a hat on his head and a brolly in his hand. More than ever, John was aware of his own unshaven state and the disgustingly unclean condition of his clothing.

For some reason, he stood, almost, but not quite, at attention. “Mr Holmes,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

Holmes gave him one of those penetrating, coolly judgmental looks that must have been a part of the family bloodline. He also glanced down at the papers on the bed. “Oh, Dr Watson, I believe that my brother would be very disappointed to find that you have so little faith in him that writing your last will and testament seemed the thing to do.”

“I am a practical man,” John said simply. Then his gaze sharpened. “So Sherlock has appeared? Mr Hopper told me that he had vanished.”

The faintest shadow crossed the other man’s face, but then he tapped the tip of the brolly against the stone floor. “Sadly, Sherlock is still amongst the missing. But we are very hopeful.”

“Missing? What the hell does that even mean?”

If his language appalled or angered Holmes there was no sign of it. “Does the name Moriarty mean anything to you?” he asked, apropos of nothing, as far as John could see.

He thought for a moment and was briefly bemused by the realisation that, in the grand design of things, he and Sherlock had actually shared very few conversations. Maybe that was why he remembered almost every word. Or perhaps he remembered the words because Sherlock Holmes had spoken them. “According to him, Moriarty is something of a master criminal. I believe he used the phrase ‘Napoleon of crime.” He shrugged.

“Indeed.” Holmes gave him a tight smile. “And I believe that he has taken my brother.”

John stared at him. “Why?”

Holmes lifted the brolly and stared at the tip. “As best I understand it, Moriarty is a lunatic. Quite mad and quite brilliant. A dangerous combination, do you not agree?”  
Suddenly, he gave an odd, slanted half-smile. “My experience with such a phenomenon is a bit vaster than yours, of course, but brilliance is often tinged with a bit of madness.”

John was annoyed by that remark. “Are you comparing your brother to a criminal?”

Holmes held up a placating hand. “Only insofar as they are both brilliant and also a bit...” He apparently gave up hunting for the proper word and John was glad that his glare had apparently worked.

“You have not really answered my question,” John said shortly. “Why would Moriarty abduct Sherlock?”

Holmes sighed. “He seems to be playing some sort of grand game. I have been able to discover that some of the puzzles, the so-called cases, with which my brother has amused himself over the years were actually crimes committed by Moriarty with the goal of luring Sherlock in.”

“Including some the cases you gave to him?”

Holmes looked mildly disconcerted. “That is possible, I suppose.”

John found that he could no longer just stand there. He began to pace around the small cell, trying to dissipate some of the nervous energy that was making his skin tingle. “But for what purpose is Moriarty doing this?”

“For the purpose of getting Sherlock to join forces with him. At least, that is my supposition.”

“That’s ridiculous,” John said immediately.

Now the look disposed upon him was vaguely pitying. “So loyal, so quickly.”

Once again, John went into soldier mode. “You make loyalty sound like a character failing.”

“Not at all, Dr Watson, not at all.” Holmes paused, seeming to consider his next words. “There is more. Some supposition on my part, but I am confident. The reason you are here, in fact, is all part of Moriarty’s plot. Miss Morstan—not her real name, of course—was working with him to...lure you in. Just as she tried to do to Sherlock on the ship.”

“Except that he was too intelligent to fall for her charms,” John muttered.

Holmes almost smirked. “He would be impervious. Luckily. Not so luckily for her, Miss Kennedy was an innocent victim, brought in to serve the purpose.”

“The purpose of being murdered?”

“Precisely. And you became what I believe is labelled a pressure point to be used against my brother.”

John finally stopped pacing, coming to a halt right in front of Holmes and too close for politeness. “If you know all of that, then why the hell am I still here?”

“Things are in motion,” Holmes said delicately.

“I sincerely hope one of those things is finding Sherlock Holmes,” John said.

“That is my primary concern.”

John stared into his eyes until he could believe the man’s words. Then he gave a sharp nod.

“Sir.”

They both turned to see Simmons standing outside the cell, with the guard behind him. No more words were exchanged, but the guard unlocked the door and Holmes stepped out. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back for a moment. “Do not worry, Dr Watson. Things will resolve.”

Before John could speak, the three men were gone.

He went back to the bed and picked up the paper with his will scribbled on it.

John did not like to think of himself as a man lacking in faith. But what faith he had, of late, rested with only one of the Holmes’ brothers. He picked up the pen again and wrote a few more words.

_It all goes to Sherlock Holmes._

*

3 

One day, after nearly four months at Eton, Sherlock had run away.

It was not one particular event which proved to be the final straw, but rather a slow accumulation of sidewise looks and humiliating ragging and quick feet stuck out to cause him to trip and fall. His books gathered and dumped in the bog. His mother insulted. Well, he blamed himself in part for that last bit, for not taking Mycroft’s advice to keep silent on his mixed heritage. Endless japes about his gangly limbs and his odd eyes.

The Housemaster was no help; he just wanted Sherlock to stiffen his lip and perhaps take up rugby.

Foolishly, at one point, it had all gotten so dreadful that he had even considered the idea of writing to Mycroft to plead for help. As if that had gone well in the past.

So, instead, he packed a few things into his knapsack and ran away.

With no particular destination in mind, he jumped onto the back of a goods wagon and rode all night. In the morning, with the sun already bright, he slid off the wagon and set off through a field of wildflowers. It was just a few minutes later that he came upon an unfamiliar sight.

In a corner of the field, he saw a dozen dome shapes, made of what looked like straw. Walking amongst them was a figure shrouded in an odd hat enveloped in netting. He moved slowly, like an old man, but gracefully nonetheless. As Sherlock watched, he paused by one of the structure, pulled something out, studied it for a moment and then carefully slid it back.

Then the man seemed to notice that he had an audience. After a moment, he walked over to where Sherlock was standing and pulled the hat off, revealing thin white hair and a quite prodigious moustache. “Good day, young sir,” he said.

“Hello, sir.”

“You are a long way from anywhere.”

He was not wearing his Eton uniform, of course, but just his tweed trousers, a collarless shirt and a slightly too-large jacket. ‘I rode all night in a wagon filled with bundles of wool,” he said almost proudly.

The man smiled. “Then no doubt you would welcome a cuppa. As would I. Come along.”

They exchanged names while walking across the field and went into a small thatched cottage. Mr Henderson made the tea, cut thick slices of bread and spread them with fresh butter, as Sherlock studied the room, which served as both kitchen and parlour. It was cosy and comfortable, if a bit cluttered. He liked it immediately. After a few minutes, they sat at the table and Mr Henderson pushed a small china pot towards him. “Try some of the honey my darlings have made.”

Sherlock tried it and loved it.

Even more than that, he loved listening to Mr Henderson talk about his apiary and his bees. It all charmed him so much that he did not object at all when the old man installed him in the farm cart and drove him back to Eton, talking the whole way.

It was the best day of his entire time at Eton.

And he sometimes still dreamt of it.

He did not want to wake up from the dream this time.

Somehow he knew that it was going to be very unpleasant once he opened his eyes and that proved to be dreadfully true.

He was tied [tightly and painfully] to a heavy wooden chair, at both hands and feet. His head was exploding with pain and he was not altogether sure that he had not recently vomited down the front of his shirt. Maybe, he mused, if I try hard enough I can go back to Mr Henderson and his bees. He remembered telling Mycroft that he wanted to tend bees when he grew old. His brother had been surprised that he intended to grow old.

Well.

Then he remembered John, sitting in the cell, waiting for a salvation he had been promised. That thought hurt him more acutely than anything else that had been done to him. 

“So, finally, Sleeping Beauty awakes. And without a kiss.”

He managed to turn his head just enough to see the Morstan woman sitting there. He blinked twice, to make sure that his sight wasn’t playing tricks on him. Although she was not restrained, it was clear from the bruising on her face that someone had used fists on her. He was slightly cheered by that. “Why, Miss Morstan, have you had some unfortunate mishap?” His voice was raspy and lacking its usual timbre, but his mockery was clear.

In return, her tone was icy. “Your cursed brother is responsible for this.”

His surprise was genuine. “I never pictured Mycroft as the sort to lay hands on a woman. Even one who so absolutely deserved it.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “That mincing milksop? I don’t think so. He did put it about that I cooperated with him. This was my punishment.”

_So the idiot does listen when I talk._ Sherlock was mildly amused by that.

“Who punished you?” he asked.

“I did.” 

The words came from a dark corner of the room, but Sherlock recognised the voice even before Moran stepped into sight. “You no doubt administered the blows, but I seriously doubt it was your idea.”

Morstan snorted.

Moran then wandered over to Sherlock. “Some men seem eager to die with a clever remark on their lips,” he said.

Sherlock decided that he was quoting someone else and thought that he knew from whom the words had come. He tried to ignore the pain, assuming a look of boredom. “Am I ever going to see the man in charge?”

“Oh, are you that eager to meet my brother?” Morstan asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Those words were probably intended to surprise him, but, of course, having read the departed Miss Kennedy’s diary, they did not. “I already met him at Government House.”

“That was not Jimmy. He was only playing a part.”

It still rankled a bit that he had not realised that until too late, so Sherlock changed the subject. “I must say that it seems like an awful lot of bother just to meet me. A fake romance, the murder of an innocent, albeit greedy, young woman, the imprisonment of an innocent man. An awfully lot of bother.”

Morstan shrugged, then flinched a bit; clearly Sherlock was not the only one in pain. “My Jimmy has always had his little obsessions.”

“Am I supposed to be honoured?” Sherlock spit out.

“Oh, yes, my dear, you ought to be.”

The silky smooth voice was nothing like the one of the beleaguered office clerk. It reminded Sherlock of the snakes he’d seen as a boy, weaving their way out of a basket, supposedly charmed by the music.

James Moriarty walked into the room and seeing him did not make Sherlock dismiss the snake imagery from his mind. The man’s hair was slicked back, his suit was perfectly tailored and he moved sinuously. Sherlock was repelled. “Just why should I be honoured?” Sherlock asked.

Moriarty came closer, close enough to reach out and run his fingers down Sherlock’s cheek. “After all, there are millions of people in the world and I selected you. You are so very clever and so prone to ignoring the world’s opinion.” The fingers moved again. “And the cheekbones are something to admire.”

“I have no desire to align myself with you.”

Moriarty chuckled. “But where else can you go? You despise your brother. And, sadly, poor Dr Watson will soon be climbing the steps to the rope.”

“If that happens, I will kill you,” Sherlock said. There was no anger in his voice, only grim determination.

Moriarty laughed.

It was at that moment the door burst open.

They all turned to look. Simmons was first into the room, his pistol out. Behind him were other armed men.

But all Sherlock really noticed was the figure of his brother at Simmon’s side. Mycroft was brandishing his sword in one hand. Someone shouted. There was a loud popping sound and the room was suddenly filled with smoke. Sherlock’s chair was pushed over and he hit the floor, painfully. He could hear the sound of running feet over that of gunfire. Then his hair was grabbed and pulled tightly and he felt the barrel of a small pistol pressed to his temple.

“I will kill him now!” Morstan screamed.

He did not doubt her words for even a moment.

The smoke cleared then, just enough for Sherlock, from his position on the floor, to see Mycroft, oddly graceful, plunge forward with his sword. Morstan made a sound that was indescribable and the hold on his hair was abruptly gone.

He looked up into Mycroft’s face.

“I told you that you should have kept up with your fencing,” his brother said, in a voice that was not as calm as he probably thought it was. “It is a very handy skill to have.”

Sherlock smiled at him and if the smile was not as steady as he might have hoped, that was fine.

**


	25. Hurt In An Exquisite Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is released from his cell and life will never be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks! Hope some of you are still out there waiting for this. I apologise for the lengthy gap, although in fannish terms not all that lengthy. Part of it is due to puppy stuff, of course. And part of it is the lassitude brought on by weeks of isolation. Hope you all are coping well with that. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter as the story starts to wind down a bit. Please let me know what you think. Any comment pierces my isolation and makes me feel better!

At the first kiss, I felt something melt  
inside me that hurt in an exquisite  
way.

-Hesse, H.

1

It came as no surprise that his brother would immediately demand to be taken to where John Watson was imprisoned, so that he could be released without further delay. Setting an innocent man free was, of course, an upmost priority and Mycroft understood that perfectly well. Still...there were other considerations.

“Have you looked at yourself, brother?” he asked with some delicacy. “Do you really believe that appearing in his cell covered in blood and vomitus is the best idea?”

Sherlock was leaning back in the carriage seat, his eyes closed. After a pause, he opened them and glanced down at his filthy, torn clothing. “Possibly, you have a valid point,” he murmured. Then his eyes closed again, while his lips seemed undecided on whether to smile or frown. “John would not care,” he said.

“No doubt,” Mycroft replied drily. “But that particular subject requires more scrutiny than either one of us is prepared to engage in at the moment.”

Now it was definitely a frown. “So,” Sherlock said, lingering over the word, which alerted Mycroft that something aggravating was coming. “Tell me, brother dear, how did you and your merry band manage to allow both Moriarty and Moran to escape your clutches?”

“My attention was elsewhere,” Mycroft said sourly. “Luckily, Simmons is convinced that one of his bullets struck Moran, so that might prove fruitful.” Then he sighed and decided to speak honestly. “Nevertheless, it was a failure that should not have happened.”

Sherlock opened one eye and studied him. “By the way, Moran claims to be an old friend of yours. I found that rather curious.”

“Well...” Mycroft’s research had uncovered details of Sebastian Moran’s history which seemed to explain the connection. “He exaggerated the relationship. Once, many years ago, we encountered one another in a cemetery. We conversed briefly, he stole my belongings and we went our separate ways.” Mycroft gave a somewhat bitter chuckle. “Although I must confess that he gave me a bit of good advice.” He could tell that Sherlock was listening and very curious, but Mycroft was not really inclined to reveal more at the moment. Instead, he just said briskly, “I have no doubt that both he and Moriarty will be in custody before too long.”

Sherlock just hummed skeptically.

The remainder of the ride was made in silence.

Once they were at the house, Mycroft indulged in his pipe and a whisky as Sherlock made himself respectable. A hot bath. A shave. The careful arrangement of his curls, a task which had Mycroft shaking his head in despair. Sherlock glared at him. “Why are you even in here?” he complained.

“Because I am hoping to glean at least a little relevant and possibly even useful information from you. You must have learned something during your time with Moriarty.”

Sherlock paused in the middle of buttoning his shirt. “I was actually a captive, Mycroft, not one of your idiot spies.” He finished buttoning, quickly tied a cravat around his neck and picked up his coat. “However, because you so kindly deigned to rescue me earlier, I will pass along one thing of which I am entirely convinced.”

“And that is?”

Sherlock paused by the door, turning to look at him. His expression was far from the archly superior one that Mycroft was expecting. Perhaps for the first time, he was not seeing the boy he had once known, but, instead, the man Sherlock had become. It was interesting and worthy of some consideration. “I do not believe that you will have either Moran or Moriarty in your custody soon,” Sherlock said. He paused, as if there might be more, but instead he simply shrugged.

“Give my regards to Dr Watson,” Mycroft said wearily.

The gesture that Sherlock made as he departed might have meant anything.

Mycroft left Sherlock’s room and, suddenly feeling rather cut adrift, wandered down to his office. Barely had he taken a seat behind the desk when Simmons appeared with a tea tray.

The thought came to him that few men were lucky enough to have a valet as skilled with a pistol as with the kettle. His unexpected touch of melancholia lifted slightly.

*

2

John could not remember the last time he had slept, really.

The exhaustion, the draining away of all motivation and energy, reminded him more than a bit of how he had felt in hospital after being shot. Of course, back then, he’d at least had the motivation of getting better. Not back to what he had been, that was certain, but _better_ anyway. Now, however, what reason did he have to even try? Only to be in good health for the hangman?

There was a hint of bitter whimsy in that thought and John almost smiled.

He curled up on the uncomfortable bed and closed his eyes. From beyond the cell and the closed door at the end of the corridor, he could hear the muted sounds of a world to which he no longer seemed to belong. One thought kept haunting him.

_Where was Sherlock?_

Finally, if not actually into sleep, he did fall into a sort of dormancy, almost as if he had indulged in some hypnotic.

_Sherlock was slouched in a black leather chair, all insouciance and knife-edged cheekbones. A perfect gentleman of Victoria’s Empire, despite or perhaps at least in part because of his mixed heritage. Definitely despite his disregard for the normal mores of society. The smile he gave John was wicked._

_John stepped to the chair, his gaze locked on the two pools of verdure and platinum into which he had already fallen. Toppled without even attempting to fight the drowning. Sought the drowning, in actual fact. Now he stood directly in front of the chair._

_“John.” The voice was soft and deep, promising pleasures John had barely even dreamt of and dangers that he no longer feared._

_He did not speak, but instead just slowly lowered himself to the floor, feeling the lush Persian carpet under his knees. It felt decadent. Indecent. And he wondered what it would feel like against his naked flesh._

_Sherlock was watching him with curiosity through eyes that seemed to have a banked fire heating the gaze._

_John bent so that his head rested in Sherlock’s lap; even he himself was not sure what the gesture meant. Was it an invitation to intimacy? Or perhaps just a recognition of some unspoken emotion? So many words left unsaid._

_Sherlock’s hand began to make slow, soothing strokes through his hair, which seemed to be the perfect response. John could feel all the fear and all the pain leave his body as he rested in Sherlock’s care. The touch, the subtle scents of clean skin, tobacco, and some exotic spice that John could not name all combined to create a feeling of peace that was unfamiliar to him. He could not make out what words Sherlock was murmuring, but that did not matter._

_“John,” Sherlock repeated after some unknown period of time._

_But John did not want to open his eyes and have this strange and wonderful interlude end._

“John.” The voice was firmer this time, more insistent and then accompanied by a hand giving him a shake.

So he finally opened his eyes and found himself staring at Sherlock Holmes. It took a moment of blinking to realise that he had left the fantasy behind and that this was reality.

Sherlock looked as if he had just come from a garden party with the Queen. His suit was perfectly tailored, the plum shirt clean, the curls arranged to look delightfully disarranged.

John knew that he was a sad sight in comparison. He cleared his throat. “So you finally turned up, did you?”

“I did.”

They just looked at one another for a moment.

Finally, Sherlock glanced around, as if to be sure that the guard had left them alone before reaching out to take John’s hand between both of his. “It’s over,” he said quietly. “You are free.”

For a long moment, the words meant nothing to him. Sherlock might have been speaking a foreign language, some alien tongue that John could not decipher. “Over?” he said.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said with a touch of his usual impatience. “I will explain it all to you later. But for now I think we might want to vacate these appalling premises.” His tone softened again, as his thumb gently stroked the back of John’s hand.

John gave his head a small shake, to chase away the fog, and then managed a tentative smile. “I would be amenable to that,” he said.

There was a bit of paperwork to get through, of course, but Sherlock managed it with an efficiency and brusqueness that rather put John in mind of Mycroft Holmes. He filed that thought away to share at some more appropriate moment.

Very soon, they were in a carriage bound for John’s bungalow. In the darkness, Sherlock took his hand again. “It’s really over?” John asked. “Even with Miss Morstan’s false testimony?”

Sherlock was staring out at the sleeping city. “That testimony is no longer relevant.” Abruptly, a hint of dark humour entered his voice. “Neither, for that matter, is the Morstan woman herself.”

John wanted to know more, but he still felt so tired, so devoid of the energy necessary to pursue his questions, that all he did was rest his head against the back of the seat and let his eyes slip closed.

It seemed very soon that Sherlock was rousing him, helping him out of the carriage, guiding his weary steps into the bungalow. “We have so much to talk about,” John said, although he had no idea of what words he would even use for such a discussion. Perhaps _he_ would have to find an alien tongue as well.

But Sherlock shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said. He lifted a hand and pushed several tendrils of greasy hair from John’s forehead. “I am going to draw you a bath and then you will sleep in your own bed as a free man.”

John gave him another smile.

Very soon, the tub was filled with hot water, which was scented with eucalyptus oil that he did not even remember possessing. But it felt most wonderful as he sank down into it. Sherlock had helped him out of his filthy clothing, piece by piece, making an expression of distaste as he dropped each garment into a pile. “For burning, I think,” he said.

John was slightly bemused by the fact that being stripped naked by another man had not given him any pause at all. But then he dismissed all of that as unimportant and just relaxed.

Sherlock slipped out of his coat, followed by the waistcoat and rolled his sleeves. Then he picked up the sponge and piece of soap, knelt by the tub and began to wash John. He started at his feet, making sure to go between each toe and paying particular attention to the soles. John’s eyes wanted to close, to give in to the lassitude the hot bath and tender care were inducing, but at the same time, he wanted—needed—to watch as Sherlock’s large, deceptively fragile-looking hands worked the sponge up one shin and then the other. Neither man spoke; the only sounds were those made by the sponge in the water and Sherlock’s soft humming as he worked.

Knees. The left thigh and then the right. It almost felt ritualistic, the manner of the cleansing. Sherlock seemed to examine John’s hands as much as wash them, appearing to find great interest in his fingers and the lines on his palms. Arms next, the sponge tickling just a bit underneath. John’s lips twitched briefly and Sherlock raised a brow at him.

Across the shoulders and down the back. Around to his chest and stomach.

John looked at Sherlock. The moist heat of the bath had brought a damp sheen to his face and caused the perfect curls to go a bit mad. His cheekbones had acquired a certain pinkness and his lips were slightly parted It was a sight that John knew he would never forget.

There was a brief pause, during which he thought that Sherlock was going to speak. But then, instead, he just used the sponge carefully, almost clinically, on John’s private parts. There was nothing erotic in the action, but there was tenderness and what John thought might be something like love. Or what he thought love might feel like, at any rate.

Finally, Sherlock guided him to lean back so that he could wash his hair.

At last and too soon, the bath was over. Sherlock got him out of the tub and dried him briskly, efficiently, before pulling a clean nightshirt over his head.

“I need a shave,” John remarked, finally breaking the silence.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock murmured. “Bed, now.”

Moments later, he was indeed ensconced in his bed, relaxed and oddly joyful. Sherlock covered him with the blanket. John almost thought there would be something more, but instead Sherlock just touched his cheek lightly and then pulled back. But he did not leave the room“Good night, John,” was all he said, before extinguishing the lamp. Illuminated only by the moonlight coming in through the window, he dragged the upholstered chair to the bedside and sat.

The last thing John saw before he gave way to the oblivion of sleep was Sherlock Holmes sitting beside him, his eyes glittering in the soft glow from the window.

*

3

Sherlock had not intended to sleep at all.

He had planned to stand sentry, watching over John as _he_ slept, keeping him safe, although Sherlock had no idea from where any new danger might come. Or perhaps the vigilance was only a pretence, when all he really wanted was a reason, an acceptable reason, to spend an entire night looking at John Watson. There was no denying the fact that he was a bit unhappy with himself for allowing sentiment to rule over him in such a way. It seemed to go against everything that he had believed about himself for so long. For years.

Things had changed, however, because at some point, some vague point, after meeting the doctor, Sherlock had a realisation. He would not go so far as to call it an epiphany, because that seemed a step too far. But, at the very least, he had come to understand something about himself.

Sherlock Holmes, it turned out, was not only the man he appeared to be in the eyes of the world at large. They saw a cold, rational scientist and detective with only disdain for human emotions; that was certainly a part of who he was, of course, and it might have been all that he would ever allow himself to be.

But it was important to remember that once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes had chased butterflies. When words failed him, he played music on his violin. Once he befriended a dog and they were pirates together. He’d had a lovely, gentle mummy who thought that he was a good boy. All of those things were also true about him.

And then, somehow, John Watson had appeared and suddenly everything made sense, because John saw him. Knew him.

He had really not meant to sleep. But he had and when he awoke, it was to find John watching him. Smiling at him.

“Good morning, you,” John said.

Good morning, _you._

The perfect words. John saw him, the real him.

Sherlock stood. “At this point, a gentleman would no doubt—” Then he stopped and gave a shrug. “Never mind.”

John was watching him, apparently amused. “Well, as it happens, I was neither born nor raised a gentleman, so perhaps I can be blunt.”

“I have no doubt about that.”

“We have much to talk about and I think perhaps that conversation might benefit from being held in bed.”

“I have never before appreciated the appeal of bluntness, it seems,” Sherlock said. He had already dispensed with shoes and now he pulled off his stockings. He reached for his trousers, then paused, looking at John.

John was amused again. “After last night, I believe we are beyond reticence, Mr Holmes.”

“Cheeky of you, Dr Watson.” He finished undressing, down to his drawers, the sight of which brought forth a raising of two Watsonian brows.

“Tell me that your drawers are not especially tailored so as to fit that perfectly,” John said.

Sherlock glanced at him. “I would tell you that, John, but it would be a lie. And I will never tell you a lie.”

He did not give John an opportunity to respond to that before getting into the bed. They simply looked at one another for a moment. “I thought that you were frightened of all this,” Sherlock said finally.

“I have been known to be a fool on some occasions,” John said.

Sherlock reached both arms out and wrapped them around John, pulling him close, burying his nose in John’s hair, inhaling. “No,” he murmured. “Being frightened by this is perfectly logical. Society would show no mercy if it were discovered. You could end up back in a cell. Your reputation would be destroyed.”

“All of that is true.” John’s voice was slightly muffled against Sherlock’s chest. “But in the end, none of those things were what frightened me the most.”

Sherlock nuzzled around John’s ear. “I know,” he said. “I know, because I have been frightened by the same thing.” He stopped there, still not ready to name the thing that he was most in fear of.

“We’ll be fine,” John said. “We can be brave for one another.”

“Have we talked enough for now?” Sherlock asked.

John pulled back and looked at him. “I believe so.”

“Good.”

Sherlock leant forward and touched his lips to John’s. It was light, almost tentative for a moment, very nearly painful somehow, and Sherlock wondered for one brief moment if he would even survive this first kiss.

John gasped.

And then the world shifted on its axis and Sherlock knew that nothing would ever be the same again, including he himself.

The kiss changed and became something else, something heated and desperate. Somehow, perfectly fitted drawers and a clean nightshirt disappeared. Sherlock pulled out of the embrace so that his hands and his mouth could begin a journey. The path was new, unfamiliar, but somehow he knew the route as if by some ancient knowledge.

He lay John down, not as gently as he’d intended, and ran both hands up his arms and across his chest before bending to use his mouth, marking John’s neck, teasing his nipples, sucking his belly button. All the while, his hands were in motion, caressing, exploring, learning, possessing. The background sound, the music to his journey, was John’s voice, uttering nonsense whispers, moaning, issuing fragile sighs.

It was sweet and it was savage

There was a crossroads, as on all paths, and when he reached it, Sherlock paused.  
After a breath, John moved.

He took Sherlock’s hand and put it on his cock. The flesh was hot and soft and hard all at the same time. Sherlock knew at once that this was where his hand belonged, on John Watson. Then everything went a bit black as he felt a hand on his erection as well. That hand began to move up and down. Sherlock instinctively began to mimic the movement and John swore in a raspy urgent voice.

Idly, foolishly, Sherlock thought of an ancient Greek urn he had seen on one of his visits to the British Museum. Amongst the images on the surface of the urn, in luminous black paint, were the figures of two young men, in much the same pose he and John were in now. He thought that there was something pleasing about the symmetry.

Then all thought vanished as his body seized and hot wetness poured from him. An instant later he felt John’s cock stiffen even more as he reached his release as well. They hung there, suspended, for an eternity or an instant and then they fell together in a heap.

The only sounds in the room were twin gasping breaths. 

Sherlock clung to John as a drowning man might cling to a raft in the middle of the ocean, knowing that his very existence depended upon not letting go.

Never letting go.

**


	26. Thinking of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whisky, rain, threats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday again and here is the next chapter, which I hope excites you as much as it does me. I want to thank all of you for sticking with this story and letting me know how much you are enjoying it. The end of the journey is nigh.

How often have I lain beneath rain  
on a strange roof, thinking of home.

-Faulkner, W.

1

The rain began an hour before midnight.

Mycroft was sitting alone in the parlour, having tired of both his office and the endless files on his desk, each one awaiting appropriate attention. When his patience with the world ended, he had been in the middle of writing a sharply [very sharply] worded letter to Mulberry. Of late, as various situations arose, the man seemed inclined to vacillate. Debating every point and second-guessing each decision. It was annoying.

Mycroft was uncertain as to why Mulberry had become so irresolute in recent months, but he was out of patience with the man. And, as it happened, so was Her Majesty. Her most recent correspondence with Mycroft hinted very strongly that she was becoming ever more determined to see Mycroft in London, overseeing the espionage organisation.

Which, of course, suited him perfectly.

Still, one must not appear overly eager to insert oneself, so Mycroft allowed reticence to govern his words to Her Majesty. In truth, of course, he was unbearably eager to get back to London.

As he watched the heavy rain fall and listened to it pound against the windows, Mycroft mulled over his most recent steps in the endless game of politics and diplomacy that constituted his life. He was no closer to deciding upon the next move to make on the chessboard when Simmons came into the room.

“Is there anything more you require?” he asked.

Mycroft thought for a moment. “A whisky, please.” He decided that the rain and darkness outside made the idea of some company appealing. “Join me,” he said. The invitation was far from unique, but still not common.

Simmons poured two drinks and then came to sit in the other chair facing the window. “A grim night,” he said after they had lifted their glasses in a casual toast.

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured, his attention once again on the rain. Then an almost smile crossed his lips. “It does bring to mind a certain evening in Brighton, however.”

Simmons nodded. 

Neither of them was a man to spend much time reminiscing sentimentally over past times, but for the moment, they each watched the deluge and perhaps recalled the events of their first meeting years earlier, during Mycroft’s neophyte days in charge at Government House.

It had been on one of those rare occasions when Mycroft had still found it necessary to do the donkey work himself. That meant an evening spent lurking in a dismal alleyway in Calcutta, which was even more disagreeable than enduring the same situation in London. It had rained that night as well and the whole venture had devolved into a massive disarray. No one’s fault, really. 

Afterwards, it had all been explained away as being simply a case of miscommunication between Mycroft’s office and the military. That happened occasionally.

But it had been raining for hours and Mycroft felt as if there were not a dry inch any where on his body, so his mood no doubt left a great deal to be desired.

Which meant that when he was assaulted verbally by some galumphing idiot in uniform, Mycroft did not have his finest hour. Their loud and heated argument attracted far too much attention from those in both camps, as they attempted to bring some sense of order to what was left of the storefront after the explosion. Finally, it all ended in a silent exchange of angry, albeit rain-soaked, glares.

The next day, dry and comfortable in his office, Mycroft sent for the file of one Lieutenant Derrick Simmons. It actually made for good reading, because despite the man’s abominable temper on the previous night [which Mycroft was honest enough to concede had no doubt been stoked by his own outburst] Simmons seemed an admirable member of Her Majesty’s forces.

But then, of course, life went on and he did not give another thought to the man or the matter until six months later when Simmons walked into his office, officially discharged from the service and in search of employment. Why he had chosen to come to Mycroft for help in that search was a question never to be answered.

So, some years later, here they sat, drinking excellent whisky and watching the rain.

“I am going to give my brother his inheritance free of any further obligation,” Mycroft said out of nowhere.

Simmons seemed to consider that, then he nodded. “That seems to be a good idea, sir.”

These quiet, late night conversations between them always brought out a somewhat unsettling level of honesty in Mycroft. Perhaps because Simmons never judged. Or, at least, his judgements were always tempered with a certain understanding. ‘It has occurred to me that perhaps my motives for withholding the funds were not as pure as I thought.”

Simmons held up the bottle and, after Mycroft’s nod, he poured them each another drink. They never had more than two.

“You wanted the opportunity to know your brother,” Simmons pointed out. “No shame in that.”

Mycroft made a soft sound that might have been agreement. Or maybe not. He suddenly remembered the expression on Sherlock’s face when talking about Moriarty, the one that had made him realise his brother was no longer a boy. He was still not keen on thinking about that, however.

It was time to change the subject.

“Victoria wants me in London,” he said.

“Of course she does,” Simmons replied. “Are you ready?”

Mycroft took a careful sip and savoured the taste of the whisky. “I have been ready since I was fifteen,” he replied.

*

2

It was a circumstance in which John had not expected to find himself.

Which, if he stopped to think about it, rather perfectly described his entire life most recently. But even given that truth, he paused before the door without raising his hand to the bell. Although he could not really think of a reason why it should be so, it felt as if he were doing something wrong.

For the third night in a row, it had been raining. John could only wish that he were at home, safe and dry, with a glass of port. And Sherlock, of course. How quickly they had settled into a certain domesticity, one that might be seen by many as disgraceful and unnatural, but to John nothing had ever felt so right. Awakening and finding himself wrapped in two strong arms. Sharing a pot of tea over eggs and toast. Making no plans for the day, but finding the hours taking shape nevertheless. Tentative talk of a shared future.

But tonight, the real world had intruded in the form of a message from the hospital. One of his previous patients, the wife of a minor functionary and the mother of two young children, was dying of a cancerous uterus. She liked John, trusted him, and he had promised to be there for her. His recent notoriety had not caused her to change her mind and John, by oath as well as inclination, could not allow himself to fail her.

So he left a rather disgruntled Sherlock in their bed and ventured out into the rainy night.

It had taken hours for the poor woman to die and by the time she had finally breathed her last, John had been sorely tempted to use the morphine and help her on the way. But, kindly, she had spared him that. He made the usual expressions to the husband, who seemed rather bewildered, although this had been coming for months. There was some paperwork, but before facing that, John stepped outside for some fresh air. The rain had stopped, at least for the moment, so he stood under the night sky and lit his pipe.

He was somewhat amused by the fact that he could right now be in a carriage on his way home. On his way to Sherlock. But instead, here he stood, lingering over his pipe and his thoughts. Dwelling on the anticipation. It was a new and novel experience for him, this delicate vein of tension, of subtle and simmering passion. He was aware of smiling at the darkness.

And that is when the voice came, disembodied, out of the night.

“He thinks he’s won, doesn’t he? That it is all over now?”

Startled, John dropped his pipe. “Bloody hell,” he said, then bent over to pick it up.

“Oh, so sorry, Dr Watson, I did not mean to startle you.” The words were mocking.

“Then you might try not hiding in the shadows,” John replied. “Who the hell are you?” Even as he asked the question, his mind went back over the past few moments, the words in the darkness that had been uttered in a soft Irish accent and he knew. Automatically, his hand went to the small pistol in his pocket. Sherlock had insisted he carry it, even to the hospital for his deathwatch over Mrs Kent.

“Nonsense, I think you know very well who the hell I am,” the voice said. “But back to business. Sherlock Holmes might believe that he—or, actually, his dreadfully pompous brother—has vanquished me, but that is very far from the truth.”

John had his fingers on the gun, but he did not pull it out. “Oh, I do not believe that Holmes wastes any time thinking of you at all,” he said lightly.

Moriarty chuckled. “Then you do not know the man as well as you may think, Watson. Holmes is quite properly obsessed with me. I am fascinating, whereas you are dull. Perhaps he does not share everything, even in the privacy of the boudoir.”

John felt as if his blood had turned to ice within his body. How could Moriarty know anything of...anything? But after a moment of panic, he decided that the bastard actually k  
new nothing and was only trying to anger him. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“Oh, just passing time,” was the breezy reply. Abruptly the tone of the man’s voice changed into something darker. Dangerous. “But as you’re here, perhaps I can beg a favour and get you to pass a message along to our mutual friend.”

John did not bother to respond.

There was a soft sound and a shifting in the darkness as Moriarty moved a bit closer. “Tell Sherlock Holmes that this is far from over. He has annoyed me for a very long time, interfered in things that were none of his business. I once believed that he and I were destined to do great things together. But he is weak.”

“Strong enough to annoy you,” John pointed out, probably unwisely.

There was a pause, before Moriarty apparently decided to let it go. “And whilst I will admit that my half-sister was quite...trying, at the best of times, there is such a thing as family honour. So I am more or less obligated to avenge her death at the hands of Mycroft Holmes.” He sighed, as if the burden were too great.

“I will pass along your regards to Holmes,” John said.

When Moriarty spoke again, there was nothing of mockery in his tone, but only a flat seriousness. “Just so you understand, I do intend to kill him one day, but I’m saving that for a special occasion.”

He was a madman, of course.

John waited to see his next words would be, but there was only silence and he realised that he was alone.

And now he found himself ringing the bell at Mycroft Holmes’ residence.

It was just starting to rain again as that man Simmons opened the door. “Dr Watson?” he said, making it a question.

“Yes,” he said, affirming his identity quite unnecessarily. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour, but I really must see Mr Holmes. On a matter of urgency,” he pressed.

Simmons just stepped aside and let him enter. “Mr Holmes is in the parlour,” he said, leading the way.

Mycroft was obviously relaxing, more casual than John had ever seen him. He looked quite startled to see John enter the room. “Good lord,” he said. “What has my brother done now?”

John frowned at him. “Nothing at all,” he said.

Was that really relief he could see on Mycroft’s face? “You look rather damp. Whisky or tea?”

His first inclination was to have a whisky, but he thought that it was important to be clear and logical at the moment, especially in front of Mycroft Holmes. “Tea would be fine,” he said.

Simmons went off to brew up while Mycroft waved him into a chair. “What brings you here?” Mycroft’s gaze sharpened. “You do not want Sherlock to know about this visit?”

“I think it would be better if he did not,” John said carefully.

They paused when Simmons returned. John wrapped his hands around the warm cup. “Moriarty approached me earlier this evening. At the hospital.” He sipped the tea “He is a ridiculous figure.”

“Indeed. And dangerous,” Mycroft added.

“He threatened Sherlock. Threatened to kill him one day.”

“Well, I think we always knew that was his goal, did we not?”

John stared into the cup. “Did we?” he replied almost absently.

“Why are you here, John?” It was the first time Mycroft had used his Christian name and the tone of his words was surprisingly sympathetic. “Shouldn’t you be telling this to Sherlock?”

“And what would be the result of that?” John did not wait for an answer. “You know and I know that he would go charging off in pursuit of that madman.”

“Yes, of course, he would. That is what Sherlock Holmes does.” Suddenly, Mycroft rose from his chair and went to the liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. He poured two whiskies and brought them over, handing one to John. Back in his chair, he stared at John. “I do hope that you have not entered into this...alliance with my brother in the hope of changing him, Dr Watson.”

“Of course not!” He resented the implication, but thought it for the best not to argue. John did not really know what he had expected to accomplish by coming here. He swallowed the whisky gratefully. “We want to go to London,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“I am aware of my brother’s wish on the subject.” He gave a small wave of one hand. “And as far as I know, there is absolutely nothing keeping _you_ from travelling wherever you want to go.”

John did not know if the man was being deliberately obtuse. He did not care. How truthful could he be? Was he skating to the edge of the cliff? “ _We_ want to go to London,” he said.

Mycroft was silent for a long moment. “You are very like my brother,” he murmured. “You both have an unnatural need for danger. I do hope that you know the particular risks of the life you intend to lead.”

“I do,” John replied flatly. “And I want to keep Sherlock alive long enough to have that life.”

Oddly, Mycroft Holmes chuckled. “I wish you luck in that endeavour, Dr Watson.” Then he stood. “It is very late and my brother will be wondering where you are. I would offer you my carriage, but I doubt you want Sherlock to know you were here. Simmons, please summon a cab for the good doctor.”

By the time John had bid Mycroft a good evening, donned his coat, and stepped out the front door, Simmons had a hansom waiting, the door already open.

John settled down inside and thought again about Sherlock waiting for him. That was all that mattered.

*

3

“You were a long time.”

John paused in taking off his coat and looked at him. “Sometimes dying takes a long time,” he said. Then he smiled. “But here I am at last.”

Sherlock’s gaze flickered over him; he could sense the tension, but not from where it came. “Here you are at last,” he said.

John came over to where he was sitting and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You did not have to leave the bed to wait for me.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I had no desire to remain in there without companionship.”

John raised a brow. “That was quite poetic coming from a scientist.”

“I am a man of parts.”

“May I kiss you?” John asked.

Sherlock leant back in his chair and considered him with genuine curiosity. “Admittedly, I am quite an amateur at such things, but is explicit permission required between lovers?”

John stared at him.

A frisson of uncertainty ascended Sherlock’s spine. “Is that not the proper term? Have I misjudged things between us?”

After another moment, John moved closer, resting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “No, you have not misjudged things.” He slid a hand upwards to caress one cheek. “The term startled me for an instant, that is all. But it was the right one.”  
He bent and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

Almost involuntarily, Sherlock opened his mouth and the kiss deepened.

He could feel the intensity of the emotion John was feeling and he did not doubt the truth of it, not at all. That did not stop his damnable brain from also noticing and recognising the hint of whisky he could taste inside John’s mouth. The smokey, slightly briny flavour was unmistakable. After the kiss ended, he pulled back a bit to ask the question. _”Why were you at Mycroft’s?”_ were the words he intended to say.

But his tongue betrayed him and what emerged instead was “Come to bed.”

John almost smiled. “For the companionship?”

“And more,” Sherlock replied.

In only a few minutes, they were both in the bed. Even after such a short time together, they had fallen into a familiar pattern that Sherlock quite appreciated. John would wrap his arms and legs around him and somehow his own gangly limbs seemed to contract so that his body fit perfectly into the embrace. There was a quiet sense of safety in it, something that Sherlock had not realised his life was lacking. Had lacked for a very long time. Probably, he decided, since Mummy disappeared.

They did not talk, but simply lay there together. The rain had begun again, harder, and the sound of it on the roof was almost like a symphony.

Finally, John moved and began to place a row of light kisses on the back of his neck and down his spine. It was a prelude, in one sense, but it also seemed to be something else and he fumbled for the word. And when the word came, his rational mind wanted to reject it, but there it was.

Sacrament.

Finally, Sherlock turned over and now he embraced John, fiercely. Their cocks rubbed together, while above their heads the rain fell ever harder, seeming to build to a tumultuous crescendo. Their bodies flowed together so naturally that he thought it felt ordained.

And then he ordered his mind to cease all such liturgical references immediately.

Their movements became ever more urgent and heated. Just before John’s release, the man gasped into Sherlock’s ear, “I love you.”

That drove Sherlock’s body to let go as well and they reached completion almost simultaneously.

After, they curled together again, temporarily oblivious to the mess they had created in the bedding.

“I want to go home,” Sherlock murmured finally.

“Fine,” John replied. “Then we shall.”

A few moments later, John fell asleep.

It was just after dawn when Sherlock slipped from the bed and dressed silently.

John stirred just a bit and so Sherlock whispered, “I have an errand and will return shortly.”

There was a hummed acknowledgement and John slept again.

He found a hansom searching for its first customer of the day and was deposited at the house in very good time. Instead of knocking, he just let himself in; after all, it was still his home as well, although the little bungalow he had just left was the real place he belonged now.

Simmons appeared, looking entirely unsurprised by his early appearance, and merely waved him towards the dining room, where Mycroft sat with his breakfast. He also looked unsurprised at Sherlock’s appearance. “Good morning, brother. Would you like some kedgeree?”

There was an extra cup on the table and Sherlock poured himself some tea. “No, I would not. I _would_ like to know why John came to see you last night.”

Mycroft took another bite, chewing slowly and then swallowing before replying. “Why would you not ask that question of the good doctor? Should not ‘friends’ be able to talk about anything?”

Sherlock heard the emphasis on the word friends, but ignored it. He sipped his tea carefully. “Should not brothers as well?”

Mycroft gave him a minute smile. “Touché. Watson did not want you to know that Moriarty approached him at the hospital last night and issued threats.”

“Issuing threats is his speciality.” Sherlock brooded into the cup for a moment. 

“Certainly you understand why Watson acted as he did.”

Sherlock nodded. “No doubt he thought I would dash off in revenge.”

“Was he wrong? You do enjoy playing the hero.” Mycroft did not sound nearly as snide about that as he might have done.

“Possibly.” Sherlock poured more tea. “I want to go home,” he said then. “Inheritance be damned.”

At that moment, Simmons came into the room, in that way he had of knowing when his presence was required. In one hand, he carried a thick envelope, which he gave to Mycroft. Who promptly tossed it on the table in front of Sherlock. “Your funds have been released. That is the necessary paperwork. You are a free man.”

Sherlock was genuinely surprised. He rested a hand on the envelope. “I rather want to be angry with you for denying me until now. But...I cannot. Given how things have turned out.”

Mycroft pushed his plate away. “I have always only wanted the best for you, but perhaps I sometimes did not go about it in the correct way.”

They sat in silence for a moment, until Sherlock realised that he desperately wanted to be back in the bed with John. Wanted to tell him the good news. He stood and met his brother’s gaze.“You do know, don’t you, that my returning to London will not diminish the threats posed by Moriarty.”

“Of course I know that.” Sherlock was at the door before Mycroft spoke again. “You will be careful, Sherlock, won’t you? Not only with Moriarty, but with...your life? You and Doctor Watson?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Good. I have no other brother and to lose you would grieve me enormously.”

Since he had absolutely no idea how to respond to that, Sherlock only nodded and left.

**


	27. A Grand Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson are ready for London...but is London ready for them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Sunday is special [at least to me] because I am posting the penultimate chapter of this story. Only one more to go. I so much appreciate those of you who have so faithfully stayed with this tale, despite the six months it has taken to post. I do hope that this chapter and the final one when posted will not let you down. Love to know what you think.

As soon as I saw your face,  
I knew a grand adventure  
was about to happen.

-Milne, A.A.

1

Afterwards, he went back to the office.

There had been no real reason for him to have gone to the docks at all, of course. All the paperwork was long completed and, really, he thought any necessary farewells had been expressed at the dinner he had hosted. But, nevertheless, come the morning of the embarkation and departure, Mycroft found himself standing by the pier to see his brother and the doctor off.

Call it a family tradition.

Perhaps the only tradition the Holmes family held true.

So he was there. And there ahead of the two travellers, it seemed. Sherlock was never greatly concerned about mundane things such as punctuality. Briefly, Mycroft had hoped that Watson might provide a good influence, but as time went on, it almost seemed as if the doctor might make his brother worse than ever.

Fortunately, before he could delve too deeply into that, a carriage approached at speed. Once it stopped, Sherlock jumped lithely down, a carpet bag in one hand. Watson followed more sedately, holding a valise. The rest of their baggage had already been delivered to the ship, but Watson reached back into the carriage to retrieve a violin case, which he handed to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced up and saw him standing there. He said something to Watson, who grinned at him. Then they both strolled over. “Farewells at the water’s edge,” Sherlock said lightly.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied.

Watson was still smiling. “Good of you to come, Mycroft.”

“Well, I wanted to be sure you both were safely away.”

Sherlock was watching the noisy, last minute pandemonium preceding the ship’s departure as he replied absently, “My brother is always very keen to see me safely away.”

Mycroft decided not to waste a frown on him. Actually, he was almost pleased to see a hint of the brash and obstreperous boy he had once known, apparently hidden just beneath the surface of the man he had become. Momentarily, he wanted to warn Dr Watson or at least express some sympathy for the trials he would no doubt face by aligning himself with Sherlock Holmes. But, before he spoke, he glanced at Watson and from the expression on the man’s face, it was clear that neither a warning nor any sympathy was necessary.

He almost did not recognise the sudden stab of an unfamiliar emotion that seemed to pierce his chest and then, when he realised what it was, Mycroft refused to accept the feeling. One could not covet what one had never wanted. He brushed it all off and spoke brusquely. “Time to board, I think.”

Watson shook his hand and headed for the gangplank.

“Be ever vigilant, Sherlock.” Mycroft did not specify what there was to be vigilant of, but he felt that was unnecessary. He held out a hand.

After the briefest of pauses, Sherlock returned the gesture and they shook. “Try not to start a war until we reach London, please,” he said. “I prefer not to be sunk.” Then he turned and strode briskly up the gangplank to where Watson waited.

Primarily because he knew that it would annoy his brother, Mycroft stayed to watch the ship make its departure. At the last moment, he raised one hand in farewell. At the railing, Sherlock snapped to attention and gave a brisk salute.

Mycroft buried a chuckle and turned to board his carriage.

It was two days later when the royal missive arrived 

Mycroft was not certain what had finally prompted Her Majesty to stop merely hinting about what She desired and begin to issue, if not decrees, then at the very least strongly worded desires.

... _I grow impatient with certain individuals who claim to act in Our Service, but whom all too often do not seem to act at all. I really can no longer abide such idleness. While One understands your devotion to your duties in Calcutta, it is really past the time for your return to London. This I must insist upon._

She went on at some length, as was Her way, but he did not bother to read the rest of her words again.

Instead, he folded the letter and replaced it into the envelope. Simmons was sitting across the room with his lap desk, working on the household accounts. He glanced over at Mycroft. “What does the Widow of Windsor have on her mind?” he asked distractedly, jotting something into the ledger.

“She has wearied of poor Mulberry and apparently believes that I would prove better company.”

Simmons did not quite smirk. “I have no doubt that is correct.”

“But you have never met Mulberry.”

Simmons only shrugged.

Mycroft paused, still fingering the envelope. “Will you come to London as well?” he asked finally. The words emerged rather more diffidently than expected.

“If you like,” Simmons said, his tone off-handed.

Mycroft nodded. “It will suit me nicely. We seem to rub along amicably, I think.” He hoped that Simmons would forgive the sentiment. He lifted a brow. “Can you imagine the irritation this will cause my brother?”

They shared a brief smile, before Simmons returned to the ledger. Mycroft leant back in the chair and closed his eyes. There was much to do, but for this evening he would just allow himself to enjoy a mild sense of triumph.

Mycroft Holmes was going to London and he would definitely be seeing the queen.

*

2

“You know, my dear boy, sometimes I truly believe that trouble follows you about like some slavishly loyal hound.” He kept his voice muted, to be heard only by one man.

Sherlock merely hummed a vague tune [Mozart, John rather thought] in reply as he stood in the small cabin, staring down at the body of the woman on the bed.

The cabin was uncomfortably crowded with the two of them, the stern-faced bearded Captain Hoyt, the ship’s doctor, who was too hung-over to be of much use, and the dead woman’s husband, apparently shocked and grieved. John, after doing the brief exam requested by Sherlock, now moved to stand by the open door, feeling slightly claustrophobic in the thick atmosphere. Neither did he feel any need to stare down at the unfortunate woman any longer; her face was discoloured, her greying auburn hair tangled and what was apparently her own scarf was tightly twisted around her neck.

Sherlock was still staring at her, however.

John could not help thinking back to their earlier walk about the deck. They had paused at the railing to gaze out at the waves, as Sherlock continued with his litany of complaints about the distinct lack of anything interesting with which to occupy his brain.

Since John had already heard each chorus and verse of that sad song—repeatedly—during the voyage, he only half-listened. Instead, he let his thoughts wander a bit.

*

In the end, their removal from Calcutta had proceeded smoothly and quickly.

As the date of their departure drew closer, Sherlock was a whirlwind of activity, much of which seemed fairly pointless to John, but he just concentrated on his own packing and let the other man get on with it. If during those last weeks, he found himself looking around corners and into shadows in search of a soft-spoken Irishman, John dismissed his unease impatiently. 

Two days before their departure, Mycroft invited them to dine at the Great Eastern Hotel, which caused Sherlock to give an undignified snort. “All important Holmes family occasions are commemorated at that place. Whether anyone wants to do so or not.”

John could only chuckle.

They were in bed at the time, mostly because it seemed as if Sherlock could not think of another suddenly urgent errand he needed to run off to do. Instead, he appeared content, at least for the moment, to rest his his head on John’s stomach and let John’s fingers roam idly through his curls.

“Well, not to be macabre,” John murmured as he twisted one curl around his index finger, “but the world is a large and dangerous place. Who knows whether you will ever see your brother again?” He gave a slight tug to the curl.

Sherlock’s breath caught slightly and he wriggled just a bit.

John smiled.

After a moment, Sherlock responded to the question. “Oh, John, surely you do not imagine that Mycroft plans to spend the rest of his life as the biggest fish in the small pond of the Raj? He intends to be the power behind the throne of the entire Empire and to do that, he must be in London. His plan was always to be at Whitehall.” 

Abruptly, Sherlock sat up, pressing John back into the mattress. “Enough talk of my odious brother.” He shifted a bit, smiling wickedly. One of his large hands grasped both their cocks at once and began a slow stroking, up and down, up and down. The speed increased minutely with each stroke, as did the pressure.

John fisted his own hands in the quilt as the heated tension built. Then, when he must move or die of the exquisite agony, he buried both hands in lush dark curls and used them 1 eto guide Sherlock’s head down so that their lips met. He employed his tongue to plunder Sherlock’s mouth, tasting tobacco and tea and the subtle, somehow spicy flavour of the man himself.

Sherlock’s hand moved one more time and two cocks tightened and then spilled as one moan echoed the other.

*

At last, Sherlock emerged from the cabin where the dead woman still lay.

He looked much more cheerful than anyone emerging from a room holding a corpse ought to. “Cracked it?” John asked him lightly.

“Well, not yet,” Sherlock replied with an irked glance. “There are still some days left on the voyage. Let me entertain myself for a bit.”

Part of that ‘entertainment’ naturally involved interrogating the bereaved husband. John took notes, while the captain stood back glaring at them all, as if he saw little difference between having a murderer on his vessel or having someone who called himself a consulting detective onboard.

“When did you last see your wife alive?” Sherlock asked the newly minted widower.

John thought of something his grandmother used to say, back before cholera took her. She sometimes called the flashy type of man a ‘dandy.’ He decided that she would have used that word to describe Mr Newman. Or perhaps peacock. At any rate, he clearly took great care in his appearance and also pride. Sadly, he also quite clearly had dreadful taste.

Yes, the more John thought about it, the more certain he was that Newman was no gentleman. 

He forced his attention back to what was being said.

“...this morning. I was eager to go ashore and see something of Singapore before we departed.” Despite the murder, the ship had lifted anchor as scheduled and was once again en route to London. “I wanted her to come along, but she had one of her headaches and declined.”

“But you went anyway,” Sherlock mused. Then he leaned closer to the other man. “Were you alone?”

Newman smiled, an oily and distinctly unpleasant expression, in John’s opinion. “Well, I had certainly intended to go on my own, in order not to miss seeing Singapore.” He shrugged. “My wife frequently suffered migraines so I often attended events unaccompanied.”

“And today?” Sherlock pressed in a manner that made John realise he already knew the answer.

“Another passenger who feared venturing out alone asked to accompany me. It would have been churlish to refuse her.” Newman seemed to have recovered some of his confidence.

John scribbled a note in the small journal that he had taken to carrying about with him.

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said. “That would be Miss Hale, I believe.”

After a moment, Newman nodded.

John brought up the image of the young woman in his mind, blonde and lively, with the blithely cheerful attitude that seemed to belong solely to the young and beautiful. It was a sharp contrast with poor Mrs Newman, a thin, fretful woman who was often absent from meals and whose most notable feature was the emerald necklace she always wore. It occurred to him that the necklace was not on her person in death. According to Newman, in fact, all of her jewelry was missing.

“You often stroll about the deck with Miss Hale.” It was not a question, merely an almost idle observation and yet it seemed damning as well.

John was aware of the moment when Newman decided to go on the attack. Indignation oozed from him. “Why are you wasting time here? You should be looking for the man who murdered my wife and stole her jewels.”

“Indeed.” Abruptly, Sherlock turned to John. “When did poor Mrs Newman die, Doctor Watson?”

Startled at suddenly being included in the conversation, John briefly fumbled for an answer. “Well...it is an inexact science, of course, but...” He saw the irritation cross Sherlock’s face and that made him stiffen his spine and speak more firmly. “Breakfast time or soon thereafter.”

Instead of pursuing that, Sherlock veered again. “Am I correct in assuming that it was your late wife who brought the wealth into your marriage?”

Newman flushed deeply. “That, sir, is an offensive question.”

“His favourite kind,” John muttered softly enough that again only one man heard the words.

Sherlock frowned at him fleetingly.

Newman was not done. “We were man and wife. Who brought what into the marriage is irrelevant.

“I am sure you think so.” Sherlock smiled. “At least I do not have to warn you to remain within reach. Unless the briny deep appeals.”

Later, John would wonder if Sherlock knew that his words would be prophetic.

He solved the case, of course. The jewels were never found, but the murderer was exposed. There was no explanation, not even from Sherlock, as to how Newman escaped from the brig. Only the two crewmen on midnight watch witnessed his jump into the unforgiving ocean.

Later, in their cabin, John scribbled the whole story in his journal as Sherlock watched him from the bed. “Why are you bothering?” Sherlock asked, seeming genuinely curious.

John shrugged. “I enjoyed it. Maybe I believe your genius should be immortalised,” he added with a tiny smile.

Sherlock considered his words. “Well, that means you will have to accompany me on every case.” He sounded quite pleased with that idea.

John put a _Fini_ to his accounting of the events and removed his dressing gown before joining Sherlock in the bed. “In that case, you will have to be brilliant on every case.”

Sherlock made a gesture that clearly said such would not be a problem.

John settled down next to him, as always feeling as if he belonged nowhere else.

_[Much after the fact, Sherlock became aware that the daughter of a greengrocer had somehow launched herself on the London social scene. When he read of Miss Hall’s unexpected emergence in one of the scandal sheets he read so avidly, the detective laughed aloud. “At least we finally know where the jewels went,” was his only comment.]_

*

It was already night when their ship eased into London, passing under the newly completed Tower Bridge. They stood at the rail and watched the lights of London welcome them. Under cover of the shadows in which they stood, Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s. “This is our city, John,” he said softly. “The streets belong to us. 1895 will be our year.” He squeezed John’s hand tightly. “We are going to have such adventures.” He grinned slyly. “And you can write all about it in your journal.”

“Only when you’re brilliant,” John teased.

“We will be brilliant together.”

“The villains of London will tremble before us,” John proclaimed.

“Beware Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.”

They fell silent then, still holding hands; it felt to John as if the city were holding its breath, waiting for them to arrive. John had words that he wanted to say. Words about the fact that the greatest adventure of all would not be the two of them running around the streets of the city being brave and brilliant, but the two of them loving one another. Instead of speaking, however, he just watched Sherlock’s face.

And when he finally did speak, it was only to echo the message of his lover’s words. “Time to go be Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,” he said.

*

3

The next day, they took up temporary residence at Brown’s Hotel.

It was no surprise that John demurred a bit at the rates, but Sherlock only waved off his concern. “I have waited a very long time for my inheritance. Do not deny me the opportunity to spend some of it frivolously.”

John only shook his head, but once they arrived in the suite, respectably furnished with two beds, although only one would be used, he clearly decided to enjoy the luxury.

“It will only be for a few days,” Sherlock pointed out. “Just until we can arrange the details with Mrs Hudson.”

John dropped onto one of the beds, bouncing a bit and then sprawled like a boy, instead of a physician and proper gentleman. “You never did tell me how you came to know this Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock was already inhabiting the room, pulling various bits and pieces of detritus from one of his trunks. He took out what appeared to be a clerical collar, contemplated it for a moment, then tossed it back. “Oh, her dreadful husband was found guilty of killing his business partner and headed for the scaffold. But he had powerful contacts within the city and there was talk of getting him off. I was able to help Mrs Hudson out.”

“You saved him from hanging, just as you did for ppme? How marvelous.”

Sherlock barked out a laugh. “Good gracious no. The man was a proper bastard. Used to knock his wife about and worse. I assured that he was hung by the neck until quite dead.” He looked at John and smiled brightly. “Hence why she is willing to rent us rooms on Baker Street at a reduced rate.”

John grinned at him and Sherlock had one of those moments that seemed to strike him regularly these days. _How can a man like myself have landed in such a place? I wish that I believed in miracles, because then this would all make sense._

Deciding not to waste time trying to understand the mysteries of the universe, Sherlock also gave up on the contents of the trunk and crossed to the bed. When he settled down next to John and wrapped himself around the man, there was nothing of the sensual in it. Instead, it was an act of comfort and, perhaps, gratitude.

When John sighed, Sherlock felt it like a butterfly kiss in his curls. For perhaps the first time in his life, he understood the meaning of contentment.

*

But, of course, Sherlock Holmes was still the man he had always been.

So it was no real surprise that when he awoke at midnight, his mood was one of restlessness. He was sharply aware of _London_ just beyond the windows of the luxurious room. His city. Rationally, he knew that his hiatus from this place had not been so very long, but it still had been painful. As he lay there, listening to John inhale and exhale softly and also giving an occasional little snore, Sherlock knew he needed to get out onto the streets.

And as much as he was craving to share London with the man he loved so desperately, Sherlock also knew that firstly he needed to make the city his own again. To breathe it in, to feel it singing in his blood and thumping in his bones. He needed to taste the air and feel the cobblestones and granite setts beneath his feet. He needed to be out there.

Moving silently, he slipped from the bed and dressed, foregoing both waistcoat and cravat. Finally, he took a sheet of the expensive hotel stationery from the desk and wrote out a brief note just in case John awoke before he returned. Then he placed a kiss on John’s cheek.

The doorman just gave him a nod as he left the hotel.

London was at rest, although he knew the city never really slept. Perhaps the respectable citizenry was abed, either in their own room or, possibly, someone else’s, [respectability being a flexible standard] but there were still many people about. The thieves, the prowlers, the prostitutes were not at rest. The hansoms, with their red or green lights glowing still roamed the streets in search of custom.

Sherlock walked as far as Piccadilly Circus before pausing at one of the numerous coffee-stalls to purchase a cup of the strong hot brew. There was always the chance that a crime might take place here. He recalled the occasion when a police-constable had been killed during a brawl at a Hyde Park Corner coffee-stall.

But all seemed peaceful on this particular night, which was a bit disappointing, as he would have been delighted to run back to Brown’s Hotel and present John with a puzzle already. But the only two constables in sight were merely drinking coffee and exchanging bawdy tales about various whores strolling about.

Sherlock finished his coffee and moved on, heading down Regent Street.

Already he was beginning to feel more himself.

Some of those around him were moving quickly, with a sense of purpose, and he wondered about their various missions. Others merely lounged or limped about, as if just being in motion were the only goal.

In the front of closed pubs, he passed groups of men, most of whom seemed broken and lost, the flotsam of society, wrecked on the shore of the Empire.

He just kept walking.

The benches set between Trafalgar Square and Nelson’s Column were filled with waifs and strays. One elderly woman sat alone at the end of a bench, wrapped in a ragged cloak, her shoes stuffed with newspaper. Yet she might have been a queen sat upon a golden throne, so regal was her bearing. Sherlock walked over to her. “Good evening, Miss Annabelle,” he said.

She deigned to cast her milky gaze upon him. “So you’re back, then.”

“I am back. How has London fared in my absence?”

The woman gave him a disdainful look. “You think mighty high of yourself, Mr Sherlock. You think the city noticed?”

He smiled at her and took several coins from his pocket. “Let me know if anything interesting happens.”

She took the coins and tucked them away inside the cloak. “Might do. Might not.”  
Sherlock gave her a nod and walked on.

He kept going until the city began to awaken, the tide of life and commerce and crime washing over London again and that was his signal that it was time to return to the hotel.

To John Watson.

Who was still sleeping, but who stirred a little when Sherlock slipped back into the bed. They moved together as if nothing else were possible.

“You were a while,” John mumbled. So apparently he had awoken at some point.

“I needed to see the city. To let it know that I am here.” He nuzzled at John’s ear. “Later today I will take you out,”

John was still half-asleep. “Will the city like me?”

Sherlock wrapped John in his arms and held on. “London will love you.”

“London will love _us._ Holmes and Watson,” John corrected. And then he was asleep again.

Sherlock stayed awake to watch through the window as the sun rose, to see the improbably golden light spill across the bed, until it touched their intertwined bodies.

_Like a blessing._

He meant to admonish himself for the ridiculous thought, but fell asleep before he could. 

**


	28. I Forget The Rest [An Epilogue]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it began on a Wednesday [1 January, 2020] and now it is ending on a Wednesday months later and in a much different world than the one in which it started. I am so grateful for those of you who have stayed with me on this journey, as editing and posting this have helped keep me sane; hopefully it helped you as well.
> 
> Most of all, i hope you think this final chapter brings it all to a satisfactory conclusion. Please let me know.
> 
> If you are curious about what comes next, check the end notes.

We were together.  
I forget the rest.

-Whitman, W.

1

It seemed to be a significant morning.

I did not say so aloud, of course, because while he would not mock me, making such a declaration would certainly give Sherlock an occasion to raise a brow at me in skeptical enquiry. So I kept my own counsel at the breakfast table. Himself was already in a bit of a mood, because it was raining heavily and promising to do so all day.

Sherlock hates to have his plans interfered with, whether by the Post Office with the tardy delivery of some chemical or by Mother Nature herself, so he spent the meal glaring at the window, the teapot and me. I did not take offence, of course. Instead, I merely spread jam on another piece of toast and set it on his plate. “You have that Francis Galton book on fingerprints,” I pointed out. “Seems a perfect day to spend in front of the fire reading.”

The look he bestowed upon me at that suggestion seemed to imply that he had no interest in the topic of fingerprints and why would I ever think that he would have?

Although we are officially retired, Sherlock is still too young to have turned into a mis-tempered old man. I just smiled at him. “Well, I am sure you will find some way to amuse yourself. As for me, I will be sat at the desk with my faithful Bartok. If you are at a loose end, you might clean up the breakfast things.”

He huffed. I stood, kissed the top of his head and headed for the study.

Over the past months, I had become quite accustomed to using the Bartok Typewriting Machine which Sherlock had given me. It might even be said that I rather like using it. My speed has improved and my rate of errors diminished somewhat. Sherlock was quite smug about that.

I sat at the desk and gazed at the pile of typescript that has resulted from all my work. All my reminiscing. It was the past dragged out to be examined. My past, Sherlock’s, Mycroft’s. 

And now there remained only the final words to put down on paper. As I spent far too long contemplating what those last words should be, the distant sounds coming from the kitchen told me that my fractious detective was, indeed, washing the breakfast things.

I smiled privately and lifted my hands to the keyboard.

_Much of the world knows the rest of the story. They know all about the adventures of Holmes and Watson, as I told them. As I told them._

_It was certainly a part of the truth, my version of it anyway. As with all tales, those stories were coloured by the emotions of the author. I toyed with dates, changed some names, and, of course, obfuscated the one essential truth. Over the years, Sherlock collaborated on some things, like the appearance of a wife and then the explanation of the sad widower resuming his occupancy on Baker Street. The untruths made our life together somewhat easier. Somewhat less dangerous._

_But now I have put down the full reality of our lives for posterity and somehow I feel better, cleaner, for having done so._

_It is, of course, unknown to me whether the world will ever see or care about this truth or whether our names will simply vanish into the murky fog of history. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson will be as ephemeral as most other beings who walk the earth. But that does not matter to us. We know who we are and what we have shared. What we will share until neither of us exists._

_Nothing else matters._

I added the final page to the pile and sighed, not certain if what I felt was relief or resignation.

There had been both sadness and joy in the telling and now it was done.

After a few minutes, I tided the papers and carried them into the parlour.

Sherlock was there, not reading the book I had suggested, but instead making notes in the H volume of his precious Index. Most often these days the notations were merely death announcements of various criminals or public figures of particular note. He glanced up and smiled at me as I entered. Apparently his mood had improved.

“It is finished,” I said, hoisting the bundle of paper.

“Congratulations, John.”

I pushed aside the glue pot, scissors and pen to set the fruit of my labours down in front of him. “Will you read it?”

He looked at me for a moment, then gave a tiny smile. “I already know how it ends.”

I gave the back of his head a light slap. “Read it anyway, you miserable creature.”

He eyed the many pages and frowned. “I will need tea.”

So I made tea for us both. Because my nerves could not bear to sit and watch him read my words [even had he allowed it] I walked back to the study and busied myself with correspondence and the household accounts. Outside, the rain was still falling and a disgruntled Gladstone rested at my feet, missing our daily ramble. At some point, I apparently drifted into sleep.

“Your shoulder will not thank you for staying in that position for so long a time.”

The soft words awakened me and my damned shoulder did give a twinge as I straightened in the chair. The light in the room had faded, meaning that I had slept for quite some time.

Sherlock was bent over me, still wearing his reading spectacles.

I shook my head to chase away the last of the fuzziness from my brain. “Have you finished it?”

“I have.”

“And?”

Instead of responding to my words, he said, “The rain has ended at last and has been followed by a rather pleasant evening. I suggest we take poor Gladstone up the lane a bit.”

I opened my mouth to object, but then decided that his idea was a good one. We donned our tweed jackets and boots, before following a happy dog out the door. For several minutes we walked in a silence that was comfortable and familiar. Finally Sherlock took a breath. “I like it very much,” he said quietly. “Even the most... unpleasant parts of my life seem less dreadful when viewed through your eyes.” He paused and chivvied our lazy dog along. “I feel sure that Mycroft would approve as well.” Alone in the lane, he took my hand. “The only thing that saddens me is that no one else will see your work.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps some day.”

“Perhaps,” he replied skeptically. He tightened his grip on my hand and we walked on together.

The next day dawned sunny and cool. Autumn had arrived on the tail of the rain and Sherlock was delighted, as he could now do what was needed to prepare his lovelies for winter. That meant he would be spending the entire day at the hives, which fact decided me.

“I am travelling to London this morning,” I said, finishing my tea. 

“So soon?”

“No sense in waiting around. I will feel better once the pages are all safely installed in the basement safe at Cox and Co.”

Sherlock gave me one of his looks of genuine curiosity. “After all the hard work, you genuinely don’t mind that the manuscript will be buried in the cellar of a fusty old banking firm?”

I stood, carrying our breakfast things to the sink. “Well, if possible I would rather it be published so that the whole world could read the truth. But since that is unhappily _not_ possible, I feel better knowing that it will be secure.” Then I smiled. “And the firm is a lot less fusty now that Cox the Junior has taken the reins.” I glanced at the clock. “I need to leave if I want to catch the 09:30 train.”

He adopted a sulky look. “So you are going to abandon me for the entire day?”

“I have a few other errands to do as well, so yes. But you will be keeping company with your blessed bees all day, so my absence will go unnoticed.”

“It never goes unnoticed,” Sherlock muttered.

That is what most often constitutes romance coming from Mr Holmes, so I gave him a rather suggestive kiss, before leaving the room to collect my things.

I arrived a little early for my appointment at Cox and Co, so I strolled up Charing Cross, peering into the front windows of several bookshops to pass the time.

In truth, young Mr Cox was not markedly less stuffy than his father, even if his wardrobe was more modern. But he greeted me cheerfully. “What a pleasure to see you, Dr Watson. My father often asks if you have been in touch.”

‘Give him my best,” I said, taking the chair he offered.

He rang for tea and when we each had a fresh cup in front of us, Cox got to business. “Am I correct in assuming that you have more notes to put in the dispatch box? Or perhaps you have come to take out some notes and scribe more adventures?”

I smiled at him. “No, my purpose here is rather different. Although I do have an addition for the dispatch box. Not notes this time.” I reached into my case and took out the thick pile of pages. “This is a manuscript that I wish to put into the box.”

“A whole new book! How delightful. Why, I just yesterday encountered your agent Mr Doyle at the club and he made no mention of such a thing.”

“He does not know of it.”

Cox raised a brow.

“This is a special situation, Mr Cox. The instructions on this particular manuscript say that it will not be delivered to a publisher or agent until both Holmes and myself have been deceased for fifty years. A directive has been prepared with certain members of the government to decide what to do with the manuscript at that point.” He looked surprised and I gave a brief chuckle. “Mycroft Holmes’ power did not die with him and the mandarins of the government have long memories.”

I could tell from the expression on the younger man’s face that he could not wait to tell his father this odd tale, but I did not mind. It would go no further, I knew.

The rest of the business was completed quickly. Whilst the dispatch box was open, I did decide to take a few case notes, just in the event I became bored and wanted to write them up.

After leaving Cox and Co, I visited several shops, purchasing Holmes’ favourite tobacco and a bottle of my preferred port. Two new nautical adventures piqued my interest at Hatchard’s and I made a find in Cecil Court that pleased me especially, a copy of rather rare volume that I knew Sherlock craved, _The Humble Bee: Its Life-History and How to Domesticate It; With Descriptions of All the British Species of Bombas and Psithyrus._

_I_ was delighted to know how delighted Sherlock would be.

By the time my shopping had been finished, I was feeling quite peckish, so I stopped for luncheon at a Lyon’s Corner House before heading for my last appointment of the day.

The tidy brick building was located not far from Hyde Park. It held ten flats, respectable if not especially elegant. The one to which I was headed was on the second floor and when I arrived there, the door was opened by a very attractive young woman in a nurse’s uniform. “Oh, Dr Watson, hello. He has been so looking forward to your arrival.”

I followed her into the small parlour, where a spare, white-haired man sat in a wicker invalid chair. “Hello, Simmons,” I said, raising my voice a little.

His smile did appear to be pleased, so I was glad I had come. The man had been quite lost following Mycroft’s passing, so Sherlock had arranged for this place and the constant presence of a nurse. There were sufficient funds left by Mycroft for the purpose, so money was no issue. We both knew how lonely the old man was, however, and made a point to pop in whenever we found ourselves in London.

I sat over a cup of tea with him and tried not to picture myself or Sherlock alone in this way.

In the end, I stayed with him so long that I had to rush to make my train.

*

2

Sherlock did wonder sometimes when he had become such a creature of sentiment.

John had scarcely hurried off for London and would certainly return before tea time, but already he was moved to clean the dishes and brush crumbs from the table. Just because he knew that John would be pleased.

“Sentiment,” he said to Gladstone. “Quite destructive to the scientific mind.”

The dog yawned, looking massively unimpressed.

“You spend far too much time with John Watson,” Sherlock muttered. “Come along, the bees are waiting.”

Gladstone sat patiently whilst Sherlock donned his protective clothing and then followed him out into the garden. The sun warmed the autumnal air, making for a pleasant day and Sherlock gave a brief thought to poor John spending hours in the smoke of London.

It occurred to Sherlock that his own existence had become synchronised to the life cycle of his bees. Spring had its rituals of getting ready for the coming season of productivity. In the summer, it often seemed as if he and the bees worked as a team to create the thick golden liquid. If sometimes he made a mistake and ended up being stung, he did not take it personally. Unlike John, who never viewed those incidents serenely.

Autumn brought its own routine. Today, it was clear that activity around and within the hives had slowed, with a corresponding and visible decrease in the population. Sherlock checked the quantity of honey left for the bees to consume over the winter and decided to supplement that with some sugar water.

Already some of the bees were using propolis to seal small gaps in the hives so that the the coming cold air could not get in.

The most important things to be done were intended to prevent robbing, the theft of honey by bees from other hives. A hive defending itself will fight to the death. That disaster had happened during his first year as a beekeeper and it had nearly crushed Sherlock.

By the time he had finished all the chores, the light was fading from the sky and he realised that he’d not taken the time for any refreshment or even a few minutes for his pipe.

Gladstone was happy to follow him back inside. Sherlock glanced at the clock and decided that it would be nice to have tea waiting when John returned. He got it all ready and then went to the front window to watch the road for a solitary walker.

It was only a few minutes before he saw John, moving a bit wearily and carrying several bags. He’d clearly done some shopping in London. Sherlock just stayed where he was and observed John’s approach. As he passed through the front gate, John finally looked up and saw Sherlock in the window. He paused and a slow smile appeared on his face.

Sherlock realised that he was smiling as well.

Sentiment.

Ridiculous, really.

*

They passed a quiet evening in the parlour, with Sherlock deep into the book John had brought him; meanwhile, John was clearly trying to read one of his absurd nautical adventures, but kept dozing off. At one point, he gave a soft snore, startling himself awake and making Sherlock look up. “Why don’t you go to bed?” he suggested. “Your adventures in the big city have worn you out.”

John cast him a tetchy look. “You make me sound an old man.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replied crisply. He closed the book and set it aside carefully. Instead of standing, he slid to the floor and on his knees crossed the short distance between their chairs. Once there, he bent to rest his head in John’s lap. “If required, I can provide ample evidence that neither of us is in his dotage.” He felt John’s hand on his head, moving through his hair slowly, tenderly. It was, Sherlock thought, one of his favourite things in the world.

_I am a ridiculous man._ The idea did not dismay him nearly as much as he thought it should.

For some moments, the only sound in the room was the snap and crackle of the fire.

“Forgot to mention that I dropped in on Simmons this afternoon,” John said finally.

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes, I could smell the lemon verbena soap the nurses use. How was he?”

John’s hand was lightly tangled in curls. “Fine, I think. He still talks much about Mycroft.”

Sherlock thought briefly of making some clever witticism, but he did not and that restraint, he knew, was down to John and the changes he had brought to his life. Or, rather, the life John had given him.

“It made me think,” John mused.

Sherlock turned his head slightly and nuzzled John’s flies. “Don’t,” he said lightly. “I am better suited for that task, don’t you think?” He winced as his hair was pulled sharply.

“I think you are a massive prick,” John replied. “But I love you regardless.”

A low hum was the only reply Sherlock gave.

After a few more minutes, they bid Gladstone a good night and went to their bed.

They had no pattern to their intimacies. Sometimes what happened was heated and desperate and they might have been youths in their first flames of passion. Other times, their dance was familiar and comfortable, like slipping into a pair of well-worn bedroom slippers. 

This night was all tenderness. Promises made and secret vows renewed.

Sherlock gently explored John’s body, in no rush to excite him, wanting instead to let the passion wash across them both slowly, like a gentle tide just licking the shore. He used his hands and tongue and the breath from his lungs to pay tribute to the man he loved. John moved with him, echoing each touch, each sigh. They fitted one another perfectly.

Sherlock whispered as much to John and John murmured something dreadfully   
maudlin in return. 

It was slow, but embers even slowly stirred will eventually turn to flame. At last, the fire took them over, rushing through them both until they were consumed, destroyed, and then, in the aftermath, reborn in one another’s embrace.

John fell asleep soon after, still sticky and damp with perspiration.

Sherlock bestirred himself to fetch a damp towel and cleaned them both before getting back into the bed and returning his arms to where they belonged, wrapped around John Watson. He had extinguished the lamp and now the darkness enveloped them. The only sounds from beyond this room were several noisome owls outside and Gladstone’s snoring from the parlour. They might have been alone in the world and that suited him nicely. 

Sherlock began to speak, to tell his own story, albeit much more briefly than in all those pages now resting at Cox & Co. “Once upon a time,” he said softly, “Sherlock Holmes went to a ball and met John Watson, a soldier and a doctor. He knew at once that Watson would be perfect to share his life with. From that night on, they had many, many grand adventures together.” He planted a soft, lingering kiss on John’s forehead.

John stirred in reaction, but did not awaken.

Sherlock lowered his voice to a mere whisper. “And they lived happily ever after.”

He stayed awake a bit longer, listening to John’s inhalations and exhalations. Then, just as his own eyes closed, Sherlock whispered once more. “The end.”

*

It began in mystery  
and it will end in mystery,  
but what a savage and  
beautiful country lies in  
between.

-Ackerman, D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not travelled in months and do not see myself doing so for a long time, but since i still have an enormous pile of postcards, I am going to begin a series of ‘Virtual’ Postcard Tales. No travel involved. I hope you will be interested in reading whatever comes of this idea. At least i will save on postage! I will take a little time to catch up on other things, like puppy training, but hope to see you all back here soon.


End file.
